W0LFVILLE 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
From  the  Bequest 

of 
DOROTHY  K.  THOMAS 


/"•I 


WOLFVILLE 


"AN*  THEY  LEAVES  HIM  THAR.  ON  THE  TRAIL."— Page  115. 


WOLFVILLE 


BY 

ALFRED  HENRY  LEWIS 

(Dan  Quin) 


Illustrated  by 

FREDERIC  REMINGTON 


flew  lorfc 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  J897 
By  Frederick  A,  Stokes  Company 


TO 
WILLIAM  RANDOLPH  HEARST 


PREFACE. 


These  tales  by  the  Old  Cattleman  have  been  submitted  to 
perhaps  a  dozen  people.  They  have  read,  criticised,  and  advised* 
The  advice  was  good ;  the  criticism  just*  Some  suggested  a 
sketch  which  might  in  detail  set  forth  Wolf ville ;  there  were  those 
who  wanted  something  like  a  picture  of  the  Old  Cattleman ;  while 
others  urged  an  elaboration  of  the  personal  characteristics  of  Old 
Man  Enright,  Doc  Peets,  Cherokee  Hall,  Moore,  Tutt,  Boggs, 
Faro  Nell,  Old  Monte,  and  Texas  Thompson.  I  have,  how- 
ever, concluded  to  leave  all  these  matters  to  the  illustrations  of 
Mr,  Remington  and  the  imaginations  of  those  who  read*  I  think 
it  the  better  way — certainly  it  is  the  easier  one  for  me.  I  shall 
therefore  permit  the  Old  Cattleman  to  tell  his  stories  in  his  own 
fashion.  The  style  will  be  crude,  abrupt,  and  meagre,  but  I  trust 
it  will  prove  as  satisfactory  to  the  reader  as  it  has  to  me. 

A*H*L. 
New  York.  May  J5,  J897. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 
WOLFVILLE'S  FIRST  FUNERAL,  i 

CHAPTER   II. 
THE  STINGING  LIZARD,  ...  9 

CHAPTER   III. 
THE  STORY  OF  WILKINS,     .  .  .  .26 

CHAPTER   IV. 
THE  WASHWOMAN'S  WAR,         .  .  .  40 

CHAPTER  V. 
ENRIGHT'S  PARD,  JIM  WILLIS,        .  .53 

CHAPTER   VI. 
TUCSON  JENNIE'S  HEART,          ...  69 

CHAPTER   VII. 
TUCSON  JENNIE'S  JEALOUSY,  .  .  .       79 

CHAPTER   VIII. 
THE  MAN  FROM  RED  DOG,        ...  96 

CHAPTER   IX. 
CHEROKEE  HALL,       .  .  .  .  .108 

CHAPTER   X. 
TEXAS  THOMPSON'S  "  ELECTION,"        .  .  118 

CHAPTER   XI. 
A  WOLFVILLE  FOUNDLING,  ,          ,          .      132 


Contents* 

CHAPTER   XII. 
THE  MAN  FROM  YELLOWHOUSE,          .          .  142 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
JACKS  UP  ON  EIGHTS,          .  .          .          .154 

CHAPTER   XIV. 
THE  RIVAL  DANCE-HALLS,        ...  165 

CHAPTER  XV. 
SLIM  JIM'S  SISTER,    .  .  .  .  .182 

CHAPTER   XVI. 
JAYBIRD  BOB'S  JOKE,       ....  202 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
BOGGS'S  EXPERIENCE,  .  .  .  .216 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 
DAWSON  &  RUDD,  PARTNERS,   ...  232 

CHAPTER   XIX. 
MACE  BOWMAN,  SHERIFF,  .  .  .      261 

CHAPTER  XX. 
A  WOLFVILLE  THANKSGIVING,  .  .  270 

CHAPTER   XXI. 
BILL  HOSKINS'S  COON,         .  .  .  .288 

CHAPTER   XXII. 
OLD  SAM  ENRIGHT'S  "  ROMANCE,"      .  .  302 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 
PiSfoN  BILL'S  BLUFF,  ....      310 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
CRAWFISH  JIM,  f  326 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  OLD  CATTLEMAN,         .          .           .           .  i 

WOLFVILLE,          .           •           .         •  .          .  3 

Doc  PEETS,     .           .           ...         .           .  7 

CHEROKEE  HALL,             .           .           .           .  9 

OLD  MAN  ENRIGHT,  .  .  .  .31 

"THIS  YERE'S  THOUGHTFUL  OF  JACK,"         .  56 

"HE'S  SHORE  A  FASH'NABLE  LOOKIN'  INJUN,"  .  87 

"AN'  THEY  LEAVES  HIM  THAR  ON  THE  TRAIL,"  115 
TEXAS  THOMPSON,    .           .           .           .           .120 

OLD  MONTE,         .           .           .                      .  135 

"  HE  LAYS  THAR  ROLLIN'  HIS  EYES,"  .  .  146 
"THAT  HE'PLESS  SHORTHORN  STOPS  BOTH 

HEELS,"  .....  172 

"  IT'S  ON  THE  SPRING  ROUND-UP,"  .  •  .  203 
"  NACHERALLY  I  STOPS  AN'  SURVEYS  HIM 

CAREFUL,"  ....  227 

"THEM  THREE  MEXICANS  is  ELIMINATED,"  .  268 

"  THE  RED  DOG  CHIEF,"  ...  278 
CRAWFISH  JIM,  .  .  .  .  .328 

TAILPIECE,  .  337 


THE  OLD  CATTLEMAN. — Page  I. 


CHAPTER  L 
Wfville's  First  Funeral 

"  THESE  yere  obsequies  which  I'm  about  men- 
tionin',"  observed  the  Old  Cattleman,  "  is  the 
first  real  funeral  Wolfville  has." 

The  old  fellow  had  lighted  a  cob  pipe  and  tilted 
his  chair  back  in  a  fashion  which  proclaimed  a 
plan  to  be  comfortable.  He  had  begun  to  tol- 
erate— even  encourage — my  society,  although  it 
was  clear  that  as  a  tenderfoot  he  regarded  me 
with  a  species  of  gentle  disdain. 

I  had  provoked  the  subject  of  funeral  cere- 
monies by  a  recurrence  to  the  affair  of  the  Yel- 
lowhouse  Man,  and  a  query  as  to  what  would 
have  been  the  programme  of  the  public-spirited 
hamlet  of  Wolfville  if  that  invalid  had  died  in- 
stead of  yielding  to  the  nursing  of  Jack  Moore 
and  that  tariff  on  draw-poker  which  the  genius 
of  Old  Man  Enright  decreed. 

It  came  in  easy  illustration,  as  answer  to  my 
question,  for  the  Old  Cattleman  to  recall  the 
funeral  of  a  former  leading  spirit  of  Southwestern 
society.  The  name  of  this  worthy  was  Jack 
King ;  and  with  a  brief  exposition  of  his  more 


*  Wolfville. 

salient  traits,  my  grizzled  raconteur  led  down  to 
his  burial  with  the  remark  before  quoted. 

"  Of  course,"  continued  the  Old  Cattleman, 
"of  course  while  thar's  some  like  this  Yaller- 
house  gent  who  survives;  thar's  others  of  the 
boys  who  is  downed  one  time  an'  another,  an' 
goes  shoutin'  home  to  heaven  by  various  trails. 
But  ontil  the  event  I  now  recalls,  the  remainders 
has  been  freighted  east  or  west  every  time,  an' 
the  camp  gets  left.  It's  hard  luck,  but  at  last  it 
comes  toward  us ;  an'  thar  we  be  one  day  with  a 
corpse  all  our'n,  an'  no  partnership  with  nobody 
nor  nothin'. 

" '  It's  the  chance  of  our  life,'  says  Doc  Peets, 
'  an'  we  plays  it.  Thar's  nothin'  too  rich  for  our 
blood,  an'  these  obsequies  is  goin'  to  be  spread- 
eagle,  you  bet !  We'll  show  Red  Dog  an'  sim'lar 
villages  they  ain't  sign-camps  compared  with 
Wolfville.' 

"  So  we  begins  to  draw  in  our  belts  an'  get  a 
big  ready.  Jack  King,  as  I  says  before,  is  corpse, 
eemergin*  outen  a  game  of  poker  as  sech.  Which 
prior  tharto,  Jack's  been  peevish,  an'  pesterin' 
an'  pervadin'  'round  for  several  days.  The  camp 
stands  a  heap  o'  trouble  with  him  an'  tries  to 
smooth  it  along  by  givin'  him  his  whiskey  an'  his 
way  about  as  he  wants  'em,  hopin'  for  a  change. 
But  man  is  only  human,  an'  when  Jack  starts  in 
one  night  to  make  a  flush  beat  a  tray  full  for 
seven  hundred  dollars,  he  asks  too  much. 


* 


Wolfville's  First  Funeral.  3 

"  Thar  ain't  no  ondertakers,  so  we  rounds  up 
the  outfit,  an'  knowin'  he'd  take  a  pride  in  it,  an* 
do  the  slam-up  thing,  we  puts  in  Doc  Peets  to 
deal  the  game  unanimous. 

"  'Gents,'  he  says,  as  we-alls  turns  into  the  Red 
Light  to  be  refreshed,  *  in  assoomin'  the  present 
pressure  I  feels  the  compliments  paid  me  in  the 
seelection.  I  shall  act  for  the  credit  of  the  camp, 
an'  I  needs  your  he'p.  I  desires  that  these  rites 
be  a  howlin'  vict'ry.  I  don't  want  people  comin' 
'round  next  week  allowin'  thar  ain't  been  no 
funeral,  an'  I  don't  reckon  much  that  they  will. 
We've  got  the  corpse,  an'  if  we  gets  bucked  off 
now  it's  our  fault.' 

"  So  he  app'ints  Old  Monte  an'  Dan  Boggs  to 
go  for  a  box  for  Jack,  an'  details  a  couple  of 
niggers  from  the  corral  to  dig  a  tomb. 

"  '  An*  mind  you-alls,'  says  Peets,  '  I  wants  that 
hole  at  least  a  mile  from  camp.  In  order  to 
make  a  funeral  a  success,  you  needs  distance. 
That's  where  deceased  gets  action.  It  gives  the 
procession  a  chance  to  spread  an'  show  up.  You 
can't  make  no  funeral  imposin'  except  you're 
plumb  liberal  on  distances.' 

"  It  all  goes  smooth  right  off  the  reel.  We 
gets  a  box  an'  grave  ready,  an'  Peets  sticks  up  a 
notice  on  the  stage-station  door,  settin'  the  ex- 
citement for  third-drink  time  next  day.  Prompt 
at  the  drop  of  the  hat  the  camp  lets  go  all  holds 
an'  turns  loose  in  a  body  to  put  Jack  through 


4  Wolfville, 

right.  He's  laid  out  in  splendid  shape  in  the 
New  York  Store,  with  nothin'  to  complain  of  if 
he's  asked  to  make  the  kick  himse'f.  He  has  a 
new  silk  necktie,  blue  shirt  an'  pearl  buttons, 
trousers,  an'  boots.  Some  one — Benson  Annie,  I 
reckons — has  pasted  some  co't  plaster  over  the  hole 
on  his  cheek-bone  where  the  bullet  gets  in,  an' 
all  'round  Jack  looks  better  than  I  ever  sees  him. 
"'Let  the  congregation  remove  its  hats,' says 
Peets,  a-settin'  down  on  a  box  up  at  Jack's  head, 
'  an'  as  many  as  can  will  please  get  somethin'  to 
camp  on.  Now,  my  friends,'  he  continues,  '  thar 
ain't  no  need  of  my  puttin'  on  any  frills  or  gettin' 
in  any  scroll  work.  The  objects  of  this  conven- 
tion is  plain  an'  straight.  Mister  King,  here 
present,  is  dead.  Deceased  is  a  very  headstrong 
person,  an*  persists  yesterday  in  entertainin' 
views  touchin'  a  club  flush,  queen  at  the  head, 
which  results  in  life  everlastin*.  Now,  gents,  this 
is  a  racket  full  of  solemnity.  We  wants  nothin' 
but  good  words.  Don't  mind  about  the  trooth  ; 
which  the  same  ain't  in  play  at  a  funeral,  nohow. 
We  all  knows  Jack;  we  knows  his  record.  Our 
information  is  ample  that  a-way ;  how  he  steals  a 
hoss  at  Tucson  ;  how  he  robs  a  gent  last  fall  at 
Tombstone ;  how  he  downs  a  party  at  Cruces ; 
how  that  scar  on  his  neck  he  gets  from  Wells- 
Fargo's  people  when  he  stands  up  the  stage  over 
on  the  Lordsburg  trail.  But  we  lays  it  all  aside 
to-day.  We  don't  copper  nary  bet.  Yesterday 


Wolf ville's  First  Funeral.  5 

mornin',  accompanied  by  the  report  of  a  Colt's 
forty-five,  Mister  King,  who  lies  yere  so  cool  an' 
easy,  leaves  us  to  enter  in  behind  the  great  white 
shinin'  gates  of  pearl  an'  gold,  which  swings  in- 
ward to  glory  eternal.  It's  a  great  set  back  at 
this  time  thar  ain't  no  sky-pilot  in  the  camp. 
This  deeficiency  in  sky-pilots  is  a  hoss  onto  us, 
but  we  does  our  best.  At  a  time  like  this  I  hears 
that  singin'  is  a  good,  safe  break,  an'  I  tharfore 
calls  on  that  little  girl  from  Flagstaff  to  give  us 
"  The  Dyin'  Ranger."  ' 

"  So  the  little  Flagstaff  girl  cl'ars  her  valves 
with  a  drink,  an'  gives  us  the  song  ;  an'  when  the 
entire  congregation  draws  kyards  on  the  last 
verse  it  does  everybody  good. 

"  '  Far  away  from  his  dear  old  Texas, 

We  laid  him  down  to  rest ; 
With  his  saddle  for  a  pillow, 
And  his  gun  across  his  breast.' 

"  Then  Peets  gets  out  the  Scriptures.  '  I'm 
goin'  to  read  a  chapter  outen  these  yere  Testa- 
ments,' he  says.  '  I  ain't  makin*  no  claim  for  it, 
except  it's  part  of  the  game  an'  accordin'  to 
Hoyle.  If  thar's  a  preacher  yere  he'd  do  it,  but 
bein'  thar's  no  sech  brand  on  this  range  I  makes 
it  as  a  forced  play  myse'f.' 

"  So  he  reads  us  a  chapter  about  the  sepulcher, 
an'  Mary  Magdalene,  an'  the  resurrection  ;  an' 
everybody  takes  it  in  profound  as  prairie-dogs, 
for  that's  the  lead  to  make,  an'  we  knows  it. 


6  Wolfville. 

"  Then  Peets  allows  he'd  like  to  hear  from  any 
gent  onder  the  head  of  '  good  of  the  order.' 

"  4  Mister  Ondertaker  an'  Chairman,'  says  Jim 
Hamilton,  '  I  yields  to  an  inward  impulse  to  say 
that  this  yere  play  weighs  on  me  plumb  heavy. 
As  keeper  of  the  dance-hall  I  sees  a  heap  of  the 
corpse  an'  knows  him  well.  Mister  King  is  my 
friend,  an'  while  his  moods  is  variable  an'  oncer- 
tain  ;  an'  it's  cl'arly  worth  while  to  wear  your 
gun  while  he's  hoverin'  near,  I  loves  him.  He 
has  his  weaknesses,  as  do  we  all.  A  disp'sition 
to  make  new  rooles  as  he  plays  along  for  sech 
games  of  chance  as  enjoys  his  notice  is  perhaps 
his  greatest  failin'.  His  givin*  way  to  this  habit 
is  primar'ly  the  cause  of  his  bein'  garnered  in.  I 
hopes  he'll  get  along  thar,  an'  offers  a  side  bet, 
even  money,  up  to  five  hundred  dollars,  he  will. 
He  may  alter  his  system  an'  stand  way  up  with 
the  angels  an'  seraphs,  an'  if  words  from  me  could 
fix  it,  I'd  shorely  stack  'em  in.  I  would  say  further 
that  after  consultin'  with  Billy  Burns,  who  keeps 
the  Red  Light,  we  has,  in  honor  of  the  dead  an' 
to  mark  the  occasion  of  his  cashin'  in,  agreed 
upon  a  business  departure  of  interest  to  all.  This 
departure  Mister  Burns  will  state.  I  mournfully 
gives  way  to  him  for  said  purpose.' 

" '  Mister  Peets,  an'  ladies  an*  gents,'  says 
Burns,  '  like  Mister  Hamilton,  who  I'm  proud  to 
meet  yere  as  gent,  citizen,  an'  friend,  I  knows 
deceased.  He's  a  good  man,  an'  a  dead-game 


Doc  PEETS  —  Page  7. 


Wolfville's  First  Funeral.  7 

sport  from  'way  back.  A  protracted  wrastle  with 
the  remorseless  drinks  of  the  frontier  had  begun 
to  tell  on  him,  an'  for  a  year  or  so  he's  been 
liable  to  have  spells.  Referrin'  to  the  remarks  of 
Mister  Hamilton,  I  states  that  by  agreement  be- 
tween us  an'  in  honor  to  departed,  the  quotations 
on  whiskey  in  this  yere  camp,  from  now  on,  will 
be  two  drinks  for  two  bits,  instead  of  one  as  pre- 
vious. We  don't  want  to  onsettle  trade,  an'  we 
don't  believe  this  will.  We  makes  it  as  a  ray  of 
light  in  the  darkness  an'  gloom  of  the  hour.' 

"  After  this  yere  utterance,  which  is  well  re- 
ceived, we  forms  the  procession.  Doc  Peets, 
with  two  buglers  from  the  Fort,  takes  the  lead, 
with  Jack  an'  his  box  in  one  of  the  stage  coaches 
comin'  next.  Enright,  Tutt,  Boggs,  Short  Creek 
Dave,  Texas  Thompson,  an'  me,  bein'  the  six  pall- 
bearers, is  on  hosses  next  in  line  ;  an'  Jack  Moore 
commandin'  of  the  rest  of  the  outfit,  lines  out 
permiscus. 

"  '  This  is  a  great  day  for  Wolfville,'  says  Peets, 
as  he  rides  up  an'  down  the  line.  'Thar  ain't  no 
camp  this  side  of  St.  Looey  could  turn  this  trick. 
Which  I  only  wishes  Jack  could  see  it  himse'f. 
It's  more  calculated  to  bring  this  outfit  into  fav'r- 
able  notice  than  a  lynchinY 

"At  the  grave  we  turns  in  an'  gives  three 
cheers  for  King,  an'  three  for  Doc  Peets ;  an' 
last  we  gives  three  more  an'  a  tiger  for  the  camp. 
The  buglers  cuts  loose  everythin*  they  knows, 


8  Wolfvilie. 

from  the  '  water-call  '  to  the  '  retreat/  an'  while 
the  niggers  is  a-shovelin'  in  the  sand  we  bangs 
away  with  our  six-shooters  for  general  results  de- 
lightful. You  can  gamble  thar  ain't  been  no 
funeral  like  it  before  or  since. 

"At  the  last  Peets  hauls  outen  the  stage  we 
uses  for  Jack,  a  headboard.  When  it's  set  up  it 
looks  like  if  Jack  ain't  satisfied,  he's  shorely  hard 
to  suit.  On  it  in  big  letters  is  : 


JaCK  KING 

LIfE  AIN'T 

IN 

HOLDING  A  GOOD   HAND 

BUT 

In  PLAviNG  A  PORE  HANC! 
weLL. 


" '  You  sees,  we  has  to  work  in  a  little  senti- 
ment,' says  Doc  Peets. 

"  Then  we  details  the  niggers  to  stand  watch- 
an'-watch  every  night  till  further  orders.  No  ; 
we  ain't  afraid  Jack'll  get  out  none,  but  the 
coyotes  is  shore  due  to  come  an'  dig  for  him,  so 
the  niggers  has  to  stand  gyard.  We  don't  allow 
to  find  spec'mens  of  Jack  spread  'round  loose 
after  all  the  trouble  we  takes." 


CHEROKEE  HA.LL.—Page  9. 


CHAPTER  IL 

The  Stinging  Lizard. 

"  THAR'S  no  sorter  doubt  to  it,"  said  the  Old 
Cattleman  after  a  long  pause  devoted  to  medita- 
tion, and  finally  to  the  refilling  of  his  cob  pipe, 
4<  thar  ain't  the  slightest  room  for  cavil  but  them 
ceremonies  over  Jack  King,  deceased,  is  the  most 
satisfactory  pageant  Wolfville  ever  promotes." 

It  was  at  this  point  I  proved  my  cunning  by 
saying  nothing.  I  was  pleased  to  hear  the  old 
man  talk,  and  rightly  theorized  that  the  better 
method  of  invoking  his  reminiscences  just  at  this 
time  was  to  say  never  a  word. 

"  However," he  continued,"  I  don't  reckon  it's 
many  weeks  after  we  follows  Jack  to  the  tomb, 
when  we  comes  a  heap  near  schedoolin'  another 
funeral,  with  the  general  public  a-contributin'  of 
the  corpse.  To  be  speecific,  I  refers  to  a  occasion 
when  we-alls  comes  powerful  close  to  lynchin' 
Cherokee  Hall. 

"  I  don't  mind  onbosomin'  myse'f  about  it. 
It's  all  a  misonderstandin' ;  the  same  bein'  Cher- 
okee's fault  complete.  We  don't  know  him 
more'n  to  merely  drink  with  at  that  eepock,  an* 


io  Wolfville* 

lie's  that  sly  an*  furtive  in  his  plays,  an'  covers 
his  trails  so  speshul,  he  nacherally  breeds  sech 
suspicions  that  when  the  stage  begins  to  be 
stood  up  reg'lar  once  a  week,  an'  all  onaccount- 
able,  Cherokee  comes  mighty  close  to  culminatin' 
in  a  rope.  Which  goes  to  show  that  you  can't 
be  too  open  an'  free  in  your  game,  an'  Cherokee 
would  tell  you  so  himse'f. 

"  This  yere  tangle  I'm  thinkin'  of  ain't  more'n 
a  month  after  Cherokee  takes  to  residin'  in  Wolf- 
ville.  He  comes  trailin'  in  one  evenin'  from 
Tucson,  an'  onfolds  a  layout  an'  goes  to  turnin' 
faro-bank  in  the  Red  Light.  No  one  remarks 
this  partic'lar,  which  said  spectacles  is  frequent. 
The  general  idee  is  that  Cherokee's  on  the  squar' 
an'  his  game  is  straight,  an*  of  course  public  inter- 
est don't  delve  no  further  into  his  affairs. 

"  Cherokee,  himse'f,  is  one  of  these  yere  slim, 
silent  people  who  ain't  talkin'  much,  an'  his  eye  for 
color  is  one  of  them  raw  grays,  like  a  new  bowie. 

"  It's  perhaps  the  third  day  when  Cherokee 
begins  to  struggle  into  public  notice.  Thar's  a 
felon  whose  name  is  Boone,  but  who  calls  him- 
se'f the  'Stingin'  Lizard,'  an' who's  been  pesterin' 
'round  Wolfville,  mebby,  it'sv  a  month.  This 
yere  Stingin'  Lizard  is  thar  when  Cherokee  comes 
into  camp ;  an'  it  looks  like  the  Stingin'  Lizard 
takes  a  notion  ag'in  Cherokee  from  the  jump. 

*'  Not  that  this  yere  Lizard  is  likely  to  control 
public  feelin'  in  the  matter;  none  whatever. 


The  Stinging  Lizard*  1 1 

He's  some  onpop'lar  himse'f.  He's  too  toomul- 
tuous  for  one  thing,  an'  he  has  a  habit  of  moles- 
tin'  towerists  an'  folks  he  don't  know  at  all,  which 
palls  on  disinterested  people  who  has  dooties  to 
perform.  About  once  a  week  this  Lizard  man 
goes  an'  gets  the  treemers,  an'  then  the  camp  has 
to  set  up  with  him  till  his  visions  subsides.  Fact 
is,  he's  what  you-alls  East  calls  '  a  disturbin'  ele- 
ment,' an'  we  makes  ready  to  hang  him  once  or 
twice,  but  somethin'  comes  up  an'  puts  it  off,  an' 
we  sorter  neglects  it. 

"  But  as  I  says,  he  takes  a  notion  ag'in  Cherokee. 
It's  the  third  night  after  Cherokee  gets  in,  an* 
he's  ca'mly  behind  his  box  at  the  Red  Light, 
when  in  peramb'lates  this  Lizard.  Seems  like 
Cherokee,  bein*  one  of  them  quiet  wolves,  fools 
up  the  Lizard  a  lot.  This  Lizard's  been  hostile 
an'  blood-hungry  all  day,  an'  I  reckons  he  all  at 
once  recalls  Cherokee  ;  an',  deemin'  of  him  easy, 
he  allows  he'll  go  an'  chew  his  mane  some  for 
relaxation. 

"If  I  was  low  an' ornery  like  this  Lizard,  I 
ain't  none  shore  but  I'd  be  fooled  them  days  on 
Cherokee  myse'f.  He's  been  fretful  about  his 
whiskey,  Cherokee  has, — puttin'  it  up  she  don't 
taste  right,  which  not  onlikely  it  don't ;  but 
beyond  pickin'  flaws  in  his  nose-paint  thar  ain't 
much  to  take  hold  on  about  him.  He's  so  slim 
an'  noiseless  besides,  thar  ain't  none  of  us  but 
riggers  this  yere  Stingin'  Lizard's  due  to  stampede 


12  Wolfville* 

him  if  he  tries ;  which  makes  what  follows  all  the 
more  impressive. 

"  So  the  Lizard  projects  along  into  the  Red 
Light,  whoopin'  an'  carryin'  on  by  himse'f. 
Straightway  he  goes  up  ag'inst  Cherokee's  lay- 
out. 

"  '  I  don't  buy  no  chips,'  says  the  Lizard  to 
Cherokee,  as  he  gets  in  opposite.  *  I  puts  money 
in  play  ;  an'  when  I  wins  I  wants  money  sim'lar. 
Thar's  fifty  dollars  on  the  king  coppered ;  an' 
fifty  dollars  on  the  eight  open.  Turn  your 
kyards,  an'  turn  'em  squar'.  If  you  don't,  I'll 
peel  the  ha'r  an'  hide  plumb  off  the  top  of  your 
head.' 

"  Cherokee  looks  at  the  Lizard  sorter  sooper- 
cillus  an'  indifferent ;  but  he  don't  say  nothin'. 
He  goes  on  with  the  deal,  an',  the  kyards  comin' 
that  a-way,  he  takes  in  the  Lizard's  two  bets. 

"  Durin'  the  next  deal  the  Lizard  ain't  sayin' 
much  direct,  but  keeps  cussin'  an'  wranglin'  to 
himse'f.  But  he's  gettin'  his  money  up  all  the 
time ;  an'  with  the  fifty  dollars  he  lose  on  the 
turn,  he's  shy  mebby  four  hundred  -an'  fifty  at 
the  close. 

"  *  Bein'  in  the  hole  about  five  hundred  dollars,' 
says  the  Lizard,  in  a  manner  which  is  a  heap  on- 
respectful,  *  an'  so  that  a  wayfarin'  gent  may  not 
be  misled  to  rooin  utter,  I  now  rises  to  ask  what 
for  a  limit  do  you  put  on  this  deadfall  anyhow  ? ' 

"  *  The  bridle's  plumb  off  to  you,  amigoj  says 


The  Stinging:  Lizard,  13 

Cherokee,  an'  his  tones  is  some  hard.  I  notices 
it  all  right  enough,  'cause  I'm  doin'  business  at 
the  table  myse'f  at  the  time,  an'  keepin'  like- 
wise case  on  the  game.  *  The  bridle's  plumb  off 
for  you/  says  Cherokee,  *  so  any  notion  you  en- 
tertains in  favor  of  bankruptin'  of  yourse'f  quick 
may  riot  right  along.' 

"  *  You're  dead  shore  of  that?  '  says  the  Lizard 
with  a  sneer.  '  Now  I  reckons  a  thousand-dollar 
bet  would  scare  this  puerile  game  you  deals 
a-screechin'  up  a  tree  or  into  a  hole,  too  easy.' 

" '  I  never  likes  to  see  no  gent  strugglin'  in 
the  coils  of  error,'  says  Cherokee,  with  a  sneer  a 
size  larger  than  the  Lizard's;  *  I  don't  know  what 
wads  of  wealth  them  pore  old  clothes  of  yours 
conceals,  but  jest  the  same  I  tells  you  what  I'll  do. 
Climb  right  onto  the  layout,  body,  soul,  an'  roll, 
an'  put  a  figger  on  your  worthless  se'f,  an'  I'll 
turn  you  for  the  whole  shootin'-match.  You're 
in  yere  to  make  things  interesting  I  sees  that,  an' 
I'll  voylate  my  business  principles  an'  take  a 
night  off  to  entertain  you.'  An'  yere  Cherokee 
lugs  out  a  roll  of  bills  big  enough  to  choke  a 
cow. 

" '  I  goes  you  if  I  lose,'  says  the  Stingin'  Liz- 
ard. Then  assoomin'  a  sooperior  air,  he  re- 
marks :  '  Mebby  it's  a  drink  back  on  the  trail 
when  I  has  misgivin's  as  to  the  rectitood  of  this 
yere  brace  you're  dealin'.  Bein'  public-sperited 
that  a-way,  in  my  first  frenzy  I  allows  I'll  take 


14  Wolfville. 

my  gun  an'  abate  it  a  whole  lot.  But  a  ca'mer 
mood  comes  on,  an'  I  decides,  as  not  bein'  so 
likely  to  disturb  a  peace-lovin'  camp,  I  removes 
this  trap  for  the  onwary  by  merely  bustin'  the 
bank.  Thar,'  goes  on  the  Stingin'  Lizard,  at  the 
same  time  dumpin'  a  large  wad  on  the  layout, 
1  thar's  even  four  thousand  dollars.  Roll  your 
game  for  that  jest  as  it  lays/ 

"  'Straighten  up  your  dust,'  says  Cherokee,  his 
eyes  gettin'  a  kind  of  gleam  into  'em,  '  straighten 
up  your  stuff  an'  get  it  some'ers.  Don't  leave  it 
all  spraddled  over  the  scene.  I  turns  for  it 
ready  enough,  but  we  ain't  goin'  to  argue  none 
as  to  where  it  lays  after  the  kyard  falls.' 

"  The  rest  of  us  who's  been  buckin*  the  game 
moderate  an'  right  cashes  in  at  this,  an'  leaves 
an  onobstructed  cloth  to  the  Stingin'  Lizard. 
This  yere's  more  caution  than  good  nacher.  As 
long  as  folks  is  bettin'  along  in  limits,  say  onder 
fifty  dollars,  thar  ain't  no  shootin'  likely  to 
ensoo.  But  whenever  a  game  gets  immoderate 
that  a-way,  an'  the  limit's  off,  an'  things  is  goin1 
that  locoed  they  begins  to  play  a  thousand  an' 
over  on  a  kyard  an'  scream  for  action,  gents  of 
experience  stands  ready  to  go  to  duckin'  lead  an' 
dodgin'  bullets  instanter. 

"  But  to  resoome :  The  Stingin'  Lizard  lines 
up  his  stuff,  an'  the  deal  begins.  It  ain't  thirty 
seconds  till  the  bank  wins,  an'  the  Stingin'  Lizard 
is  the  wrong  side  of  the  layout  from  his  money. 


The  Stinging  Lizard*  15 

He  takes  it  onusual  ugly,  only  he  ain't  sayin' 
much.  He  sa'nters  over  to  the  bar,  an'  gets  a 
big  drink.  Cherokee  is  rifflin'  the  deck,  but  I 
notes  he's  got  his  gray  eye  on  the  Stingin'  Liz- 
ard, an'  my  respect  for  him  increases  rapid.  I 
sees  he  ain't  goin'  to  get  the  worst  of  no  deal, 
an'  is  organized  to  protect  his  game  plumb 
through  if  this  Lizard  makes  a  break. 

"  *  Do  you-all  know  where  I  hails  from  ?  '  asks 
the  Stingin'  Lizard,  comin'  back  to  Cherokee 
after  he's  done  hid  his  drink. 

"  '  Which  I  shorely  don't,'  says  Cherokee.  *  I 
has  from  time  to  time  much  worthless  informa- 
tion thrust  upon  me,  but  so  far  I  escapes  all 
news  of  you  complete.' 

"  *  Where  I  comes  from,  which  is  Texas/  says 
the  Lizard,  ignorin'  of  Cherokee's  manner,  the 
same  bein'  some  insultin',  *  they  teaches  the 
babies  two  things, — never  eat  your  own  beef,  an' 
never  let  no  kyard-thief  down  you.' 

"  '  Which  is  highly  thrillin','  says  Cherokee,  *  as 
reminiscences  of  your  yooth,  but  where  dees 
you-all  get  action  on  'em  in  Arizona  ?  ' 

"  '  Where  I  gets  action  won't  be  no  question 
long,'  says  the  Lizard,  mighty  truculent.  *  I  now 
announces  that  this  yere  game  is  a  skin  an'  a 
brace.  Tharfore  I  returns  for  my  money ;  an', 
to  be  frank,  I  returns  a-shootinV 

"  It's  at  this  p'int  we-alls  who  represents  the 
public  kicks  back  our  chairs  an'  stampedes  outen 


1 6  Wolfville. 

range.  As  the  Lizard  makes  his  bluff  his  hand 
goes  to  his  artillery  like  a  flash. 

"  The  Lizard's  some  quick,  but  Cherokee's  too 
soon  for  him.  With  the  first  move  of  the  Liz- 
ard's hand,  he  searches  out  abowie  from  som'ers 
back  of  his  neck.  I'm  some  employed  placin' 
myse'f  at  the  time,  an'  don't  decern  it  none  till 
Cherokee  brings  it  over  his  shoulder  like  a  stream 
of  white  light. 

"  It's  shore  great  knife-work.  Cherokee  gives 
the  Lizard  aige  an  p'int,  an'  all  in  one  motion. 
Before  the  Lizard  more'n  lifts  his  weepon,  Cher- 
okee half  slashes  his  gun-hand  off  at  the  wrist  ; 
an'  then,  jest  as  the  Lizard  begins  to  wonder  at 
it,  he  gets  the  nine-inch  blade  plumb  through  his 
neck.  He's  let  out  right  thar. 

"  *  It  looks  like  I  has  more  of  this  thing  to  do,' 
says  Cherokee,  an'  his  tone  shows  he's  half-way 
mournin'  over  it,  *  than  any  sport  in  the  Terri- 
tory. I  tries  to  keep  outen  this,  but  that  Lizard 
gent  would  have  it.' 

"  After  the  killin',  Enright  an'  Doc  Peets,  with 
Boggs,  Tutt,  an*  Jack  Moore,  sorter  talks  it  over 
quiet,  an'  allows  it's  all  right. 

" '  This  Stingin'  Lizard  gent,'  says  Enright, 
'  has  been  projectin'  'round  lustin'  for  trouble 
now,  mebby  it's  six  weeks.  It's  amazin'  to  me 
he  lasts  as  long  as  he  does,  an'  it  speaks  volumes 
for  the  forbearin',  law-abidin'  temper  of  the 
Wolfville  public.  This  Lizard's  a  mighty  op- 


The  Stinging  Lizard*  1 7 

pressive  person,  an'  a  heap  obnoxious ;  an*  while 
I  don't  like  a  knife  none  myse'f  as  a  trail  out,  an' 
inclines  to  distrust  a  gent  who  does,  I  s'pose  it's 
after  all  a  heap  a  matter  of  taste  an'  the  way 
your  folks  brings  you  up.  I  leans  to  the  view, 
gents,  that  this  yere  corpse  is  constructed  on  the 
squar'.  What  do  you-all  think,  Peets  ? ' 

"  '  I  entertains  idees  sim'lar,'  says  Doc  Peets. 
'  Of  course  I  takes  it  this  kyard-sharp,  Cherokee, 
aims  to  bury  his  dead.  He  nacherally  ain't  look- 
in'  for  the  camp  to  go  'round  cleanin'  up  after 
him  none.' 

"  That's  about  how  it  stands.  Nobody  finds 
fault  with  Cherokee,  an'  as  he  ups  an'  plants  the 
Stingin'  Lizard's  remainder  the  next  day,  makin' 
the  deal  with  a  stained  box,  crape,  an'  the  full 
regalia,  it  all  leaves  the  camp  with  a  mighty 
decent  impression.  By  first-drink  time  in  the 
evenin'  of  the  second  day,  we  ain't  thinkin'  no 
more  about  it. 

"  Now  you-all  begins  to  marvel  where  do  we 
get  to  the  hangin'  of  Cherokee  Hall  ?  We're 
workin'  in  towards  it  now. 

"You  sees,  followin'  the  Stingin'  Lizard's  jump 
into  the  misty  beyond — which  it's  that  sudden  I 
offers  two  to  one  them  angels  notes  a  look  of 
s'prise  on  the  Stingin'  Lizard's  face  as  to  how  he 
comes  to  make  the  trip — Cherokee  goes  on 
dealin'  faro  same  as  usual.  As  I  says  before,  he 
ain't  no  talker,  nohow  ;  now  he  says  less  than  ever. 


i8  Wolfville. 

"  But  what  strikes  us  as  onusual  is,  he  saddles 
up  a  pinto  pony  he's  got  over  to  the  corral,  an' 
jumps  off  every  now  an'  then  for  two  an'  three 
days  at  a  clatter.  No  one  knows  where  he  p'ints 
to,  more'n  he  says  he's  due  over  in  Tucson. 
These  yere  vacations  of  Cherokee's  is  all  in  the 
month  after  the  Stingin'  Lizard  gets  downed. 

"  It's  about  this  time,  too,  the  stage  gets  held 
up  sech  a  scand'lous  number  of  times  it  gives 
people  a  tired  feelin'.  All  by  one  party,  too. 
He  merely  prances  out  in  onexpected  places 
with  a  Winchester ;  stands  up  the  stage  in  an 
onconcerned  way,  an'  then  goes  through  every- 
thin'  an'  everybody,  from  mail-bags  to  passengers, 
like  the  grace  of  heaven  through  a  camp-meetin'. 
Nacheral,  it  all  creates  a  heap  of  disgust. 

"  '  If  this  yere  industrious  hold-up  keeps  up  his 
lick,'  says  Texas  Thompson  about  the  third  time 
the  stage  gets  rustled,  '  an'  heads  off  a  few  more 
letters  of  mine,  all  I  has  to  say  is  my  wife  back 
in  Laredo  ain't  goin'  to  onderstand  it  none.  She 
ain't  lottin'  much  on  me  nohow,  an'  if  the  corre- 
spondence between  us  gets  much  more  fitful,  she's 
goin'  p'intin'  out  for  a  divorce.  This  deal's  liable 
to  turn  a  split  for  me  in  my  domestic  affairs.' 

"  An'  that's  the  way  we-alls  feels.  This  stage 
agent  is  shorely  in  disrepoot  some  in  Wolfville. 
If  he'd  been  shakin'  up  Red  Dog's  letter-bags, 
we  wouldn't  have  minded  so  much. 

"  I  never  does  know  who's  the  first  to  think  of 


The  Stinging  Lizard.  19 

Cherokee  Hall,  but  all  at  once  it's  all  over  camp. 
Talkin'  it  over,  it's  noticed  mighty  soon  that, 
come  right  to  cases,  no  one  knows  his  record, 
where  he's  been  or  why  he's  yere.  Then  his 
stampedin'  out  of  camp  like  he's  been  doin'  for  a 
month  is  too  many  for  us. 

4< '  I  puts  no  trust  in  them  Tucson  lies  he  tells, 
neither,'  says  Doc  Peets.  '  Whatever  would  he 
be  shakin'  up  over  in  Tucson  ?  His  game's  yere, 
an'  this  theery  that  he's  got  to  go  scatterin'  over 
thar  once  a  week  is  some  gauzy.' 

" '  That's  whatever,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  who 
allers  trails  in  after  Doc  Peets,  an'  plays  the  same 
system  emphatic.  An'  I  says  myse'f,  not  findin' 
no  fault  with  Boggs  tharfor,  that  this  yere  Peets 
is  the  finest-eddicated  an'  levelest-headed  sharp 
in  Arizona. 

"  '  Well/  says  Jack  Moore,  who  as  I  says  before 
does  the  rope  work  for  the  Stranglers,  *  if  you-alls 
gets  it  settled  that  this  faro  gent's  turnin'  them 
tricks  with  the  stage  an'  mail-bags,  the  sooner 
he's  swingin'  to  the  windmill,  the  sooner  we 
hears  from  our  loved  ones  at  home.  What  do 
you  say,  Enright  ?  ' 

"  '  Why/  says  Enright,  all  thoughtful,  '  I  reck- 
ons it's  a  case.  S'pose  you  caper  over  where  he 
feeds  at  the  O.  K.  House  an'  bring  him  to  us.  The 
signs  an'  signal-smokes  shorely  p'ints  to  this  yere 
Cherokee  as  our  meat ;  but  these  things  has  to 
be  done  in  order.  Bring  him  in,  Jack,  an',  to 


20  Wolfville. 

save  another  trip,  s'pose  you  bring  a  lariat  from 
the  corral  at  the  same  time.' 

"  It  don't  take  Moore  no  time  to  throw  a  gun 
on  Cherokee  where  he's  consoomin'  flapjacks  at 
the  O.  K.  House,  an'  tell  him  the  committee 
needs  him  at  the  New  York  Store.  Cherokee 
don't  buck  none,  but  comes  along,  passive  as  a 
tabby  cat. 

"  '  Whatever's  the  hock  kyard  to  all  this  ? '  he 
says  to  Jack  Moore.  '  Is  it  thisStingin'  Lizard 
play  a  month  ago  ? 

"  '  No,'  says  Moore,  '  't'ain't  quite  sech  ancient 
hist'ry.  It's  stage  coaches.  Thar's  a  passel  of 
people  down  yere  as  allows  you've  been  rustlin' 
the  mails.' 

"  Old  Man  Rucker,  who  keeps  the  O.  K.  House, 
is  away  when  Moore  rounds  up  his  party.  But 
Missis  Rucker's  thar,  an'  the  way  that  old  lady 
talks  to  Enright  an'  the  committee  is  a  shame. 
She  comes  over  to  the  store,  too,  along  of  Moore 
an'  Cherokee,  an'  prances  in  an'  comes  mighty 
near  stampedin'  the  whole  outfit. 

"  '  See  yere,  Sam  Enright,'  she  shouts,  wipin' 
her  hands  on  her  bib,  '  what  be  you-alls  aimin' 
for  to  do?  Linin*  up,  I  s'pose,  to  hang  the  only 
decent  man  in  town  ?  ' 

" '  Ma'am,'  says  Enright,  *  this  yere  sharp  is 
'cused  of  standin'  up  the  stage  them  times  re- 
cent over  by  Tucson.  Do  you  know  anythin' 
about  it  ? ' 


The  Stinging  Lizard*  2 1 

"'No;  I  don't,'  says  Missis  Rucker.  'You 
don't  reckon,  now,  I  did  it  none,  do  you  ?  I  says 
this,  though  ;  it's  a  heap  sight  more  likely  some 
drunkard  a-settin'  right  yere  on  this  committee 
stops  them  stages  than  Cherokee  Hall.' 

"  '  Woman's  nacher's  that  emotional/  says  En- 
right  to  the  rest  of  us,  *  she's  oncapable  of  doin* 
right.  While  she's  the  loveliest  of  created  things, 
still  sech  is  the  infirmities  of  her  intellects,  that 
gov'ment  would  bog  down  in  its  most  important 
functions,  if  left  to  woman.' 

" '  Bog  down  or  not,'  says  Missis  Rucker, 
gettin'  red  an'  heated,  '  you  fools  settin'  up  thar 
like  a  band  of  prairie-dogs  don't  hang  this  yere 
Cherokee  Hall.  'Nother  thing,  you  ain't  goin* 
to  hang  nobody  to  the  windmill  ag'in  nohow.  I 
has  my  work  to  do,  an*  thar's  enough  on  my 
hands,  feedin'  sech  swine  as  you-alls  three  times 
a  day,  without  havin'  to  cut  down  dead  folks 
outen  my  way  every  time  I  goes  for  a  bucket  of 
water.  You-alls  takes  notice  now  ;  you  don't 
hangnothin'  to  the  windmill  no  more.  As  for 
this  yere  Cherokee,  he  ain't  stopped  no  more 
stages  than  I  be.' 

"  '  But  you  sees  yourse'f,  ma'am,  you  hasn't 
the  slightest  evidence  tharof,'  says  Enright, 
tryin'  to  soothe  her  down. 

" '  I  has,  however,  what's  a  mighty  sight  better 
than  evidence/ says  Missis  Rucker,  'an*  that's  my 
firm  convictions.' 


22  Wolfville* 

"  '  Well,  see  yere,'  says  Cherokee,  who's  been 
listenin'  all  peaceful,  '  let  me  in  on  this.  What 
be  you-alls  doin'  this  on  ?  I  reckons  I'm  entitled 
to  a  look  at  your  hand  for  my  money.' 

"  Enright  goes  on  an*  lays  it  off  for  Cherokee  ; 
how  he's  outen  camp  every  time  the  stage  is 
robbed,  an'  the  idee  is  abroad  he  does  it. 

"'As  the  kyards  lay  in  the  box,'  says  Chero- 
kee, '  I  don't  reckon  thar's  much  doubt  but  you- 
alls  will  wind  up  the  deal  by  hangin'  me  ? ' 

"  '  It's  shorely  five  to  one  that  a-way,'  says  En- 
right.  '  Although  I'm  bound  to  say  it  ain't  none 
decisive  as  yet/ 

"  '  The  trooth  is,'  says  Cherokee,  sorter  thought- 
ful, '  I  wasn't  aimin'  to  be  hung  none  this  autumn. 
I  ain't  got  time,  gents,  for  one  thing,  an'  has 
arranged  a  heap  diff'rent.  In  the  next  place,  I 
never  stands  up  no  stage.' 

"  *  That's  what  they  all  says,'  puts  in  Boggs, 
who's  a  mighty  impatient  man.  *  I  shorely  notes 
no  reason  why  we-alls  can't  proceed  with  this  yere 
lynchin'  at  once.  S'pose  this  Cherokee  ain't 
stood  up  no  stage ;  he's  done  plenty  of  other 
things  as  merits  death.  It  strikes  me  thar's  a 
sight  of  onnecessary  talk  yere.' 

"'If  you  ain't  out  workin'  the  road,'  says  Doc 
Peets  to  Cherokee,  not  heedin'  of  Bogg's  petu- 
lance, '  them  stage-robbin'  times,  s'pose  you  on- 
folds  where  you  was  at?" 

"  Well,  son,  not  to  string  this  yere  story  out 


The  Stinging  Lizard.  23 

longer'n  three  drinks,  yere  is  how  it  is  :  This 
Cherokee  it  looks  like  is  soft-hearted  that  a-way, — 
what  you  calls  romantic.  An'  it  seems  likewise 
that  shovin'  the  Stingin'  Lizard  from  shore  that 
time  sorter  takes  advantage  an'  feeds  on  him.  So 
he  goes  browsin'  'round  the  postmaster  all  cas- 
ooal,  an'  puts  questions.  Cherokee  gets  a  p'inter 
about  some  yearlin*  or  other  in  Tucson  this 
Stingin'  Lizard  sends  money  to  an'  makes  good 
for,  which  he  finds  the  same  to  be  fact  on  caperin' 
over.  It's  a  nephy  or  some  sech  play.  An'  the 
Stingin'  Lizard  has  the  young  one  staked  out 
over  thar,  an'  is  puttin'  up  for  his  raiment  an' 
grub  all  reg'lar  enough. 

"'Which  I  yereafter  backs  this  infant's  play 
myse'f,'  says  Cherokee  to  the  barkeep  of  the 
Oriental  Saloon  over  in  Tucson,  which  is  the  party 
the  Stingin'  Lizard  pastures  the  young  one  on. 
'  You're  all  right,  Bill,'  goes  on  this  Cherokee  to 
the  barkeep,  '  but  now  I  goes  back  of  the  box 
for  this  infant  boy,  I  reckons  I'll  saw  him  off 
onto  a  preacher,  or  some  sharp  sim'lar,  where 
he  gets  a  Christian  example.  Whatever  do  you 
think?' 

"  The  barkeep  says  himse'f  he  allows  it's  the 
play  to  make.  So  he  an'  Cherokee  goes  surgin' 
'round,  an'  at  last  they  camps  the  boy — who's 
seven  years  comin'  grass — on  the  only  pulpit- 
sharp  in  Tucson.  This  gospel-spreader  says  he'll 
feed  an'  bed  down  the  boy  for  some  sum  ;  which 


24  Wolfville, 

was  shore  a  giant  one,  but  the  figgers  I  now  for- 
gets. 

"  Cherokee  gives  him  a  stack  of  blues  to  start 
his  game,  an'  is  now  pesterin'  'round  in  a  co't 
tryin'  to  get  the  young  one  counter-branded  from 
the  Stingin'  Lizard's  outfit  into  his,  an'  given  the 
name  of  Cherokee  Hall.  That's  what  takes  him 
over  to  Tucson  them  times,  an'  not  stage-robbin'. 

"Two  days  later,  in  fact,  to  make  shore  all 
doubts  is  over,  Cherokee  even  rings  in  said  divine 
on  us  ;  which  the  divine  tells  the  same  story.  I 
don't  reckon  now  he's  much  of  a  preacher  nei- 
ther; for  he  gives  Wolfville  one  whirl  for  luck 
over  in  the  warehouse  back  of  the  New  York 
Store,  an'  I  shore  hears  'em  as  makes  a  mighty 
sight  more  noise,  an'  bangs  the  Bible  twice  as 
hard,  back  in  the  States.  I  says  so  to  Cherokee  ; 
but  he  puts  it  up  he  don't  bank  none  on  his 
preachin'. 

"  '  What  I  aims  at/  says  Cherokee,  *  is  some  one 
who  rides  herd  on  the  boy  all  right,  an'  don't  let 
him  stampede  off  none  into  vicious  ways.' 

"'Why  don't  you  keep  the  camp-  informed  of 
this  yere  orphan  an'  the  play  you  makes  ? '  says 
Enright,  at  the  time  it's  explained  to  the  com- 
mittee,— the  time  they  trees  Cherokee  about  them 
stages. 

"  '  It's  that  benev'lent  an'  mushy,'  says  Chero- 
kee, '  I'm  plumb  ashamed  of  the  deal,  an'  don't 
allow  to  go  postin'  no  notices  tharof.  But  along 


The  Stinging  Lizard*  25 

comes  thisyere  hold-up  business,  an',  all  inadver- 
tent, tips  my  hand  ;  which  the  same  I  stands, 
however,  jest  the  same.' 

"  *  It's  all  right,'  says  Enright,  some  disgusted 
though  ;  *  but  the  next  time  you  makes  them 
foundlin' asylum  trips,  don't  walk  in  the  water  so 
much.  Leave  your  trail  so  Wolfville  sees  it,  an' 
then  folks  ain't  so  likely  to  jump  your  camp  in 
the  dark  an'  take  to  shootin'  you  up  for  Injuns 
an'  sim'lar  hostiles.' 

"  '  But  one  thing  more,'  continues  Enright,  *  an' 
then  we  orders  the  drinks.  Jack  Moore  is  yereby 
instructed  to  present  the  compliments  of  the 
committee  to  Rucker,  when  he  trails  in  from  Tuc- 
son ;  which  he  also  notifies  him  to  hobble  his 
wife  yereafter  durin'  sessions  of  this  body.  She's 
not  to  go  draggin'  her  lariat  'round  loose  no  more, 
settin'  law  an'  order  at  defiance  durin'  sech  hours 
as  is  given  to  business  by  the  Stranglers.'  " 


CHAPTER  EL 
The  Story  of  Wilkins. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  reckon  I  ever  cuts  the  trail  of 
this  yere  Wilson  you  mentions,  once.  If  I  does, 
the  fact's  done  pulled  its  picket-pin  an'  strayed 
from  my  recollections." 

I  had  recalled  the  name  of  a  former  friend,  one 
Wilson,  who,  sore  given  to  liquor,  had  drifted  to 
Arizona  many  years  before  and  disappeared. 
Suggesting  "Wilson"  to  the  Old  Cattleman,  I 
asked  if  he  had  met  with  such  a  name  and  char- 
acter in  his  Wolfville  rambles. 

As  often  chanced,  however,  the  question  bore 
fruit  in  a  story.  It  frequently  needed  but  a  slight 
blow  from  the  rod  of  casual  inquiry,  and  the 
fountains  of  my  old  friend's  reminiscences  gushed 
forth. 

"  No,  I  never  crosses  up  with  him,"  observed 
the  Old  Cattleman ;  "  but  speakin'  of  Wilson 
puts  in  my  mind  a  gent  by  the  name  of  Wilkins, 
who  it's  some  likely  is  as  disrepootable  as  your 
old  pard  Wilson." 

"What  about  Wilkins?"  I  asked. 

"  Nothin*  thrillin',  "  answered   the  old  gentle- 


The  Story  of  Wilkins*  27 

man ;  "  nothin'  you'd  stay  up  nights  to  hear,  I 
don't  reckon.  It's  Wilkins's  daughter  who  is  the 
only  redeemin'  thing  about  the  old  Cimmaron  ; 
an'  it's  a  heap  likely  right  now  it's  her  I  remem- 
bers about  instead  of  him. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  continued,  "  I  don't  mind  on- 
foldin'  as  to  Wilkins,  nor  yet  of  an'  concernin'  his 
daughter.  You  see  this  Wilkins  is  herdin"round 
Wolfville  when  I  first  trails  in.  I  never  does 
know  where  he  hails  from.  I  don't  reckon' 
though,  he  ever  grades  no  ways  high,  an'  at  the 
crisis  I'm  mentionin*  his  speshul  play  is  gettin' 
drunk  mostly  ;  an'  not  allowin'  to  hurt  himse'f 
none  with  work. 

"  *  Workin'  with  your  fins,'  says  this  Wilkins, 
*  is  low  an'  onendoorin'  to  a  gent  with  pride  to 
wound.  It  ain't  no  use  neither.  I  knows  folks 
as  works,  an'  folks  as  don't,  an'  you  can't  tell 
one  from  which.  They  gets  along  entirely  sim'- 
lar.' 

"  *  But  how  you  goin'  to  live  ?  '  says  Dave  Tutt, 
when  he  makes  this  remark,  an'  who  is  fussin' 
with  Wilkins  for  bein'  so  reedic'lous  an'  shiftless. 

"  '  That's  all  right  about  my  livin','  says  Wil- 
kins ;  '  don't  you-all  pass  no  restless  nights  on  my 
account.  Go  read  your  Scriptures  ;  read  that 
bluff  about  feedin'  the  young  ravens  an'  sparrers. 
Well,  that's  me  this  trip.  I'm  goin'  to  rap  for  a 
show-down  on  them  promises  an'  see  what's  in 
'em.' 


28  Wolfville, 

"  '  This  camp  ain't  strong  on  Holy  Writ,  no- 
how/ says  Dave  Tutt,  'an'  I'm  partic'lar  puny 
that  a-way.  It's  your  game  though,  an'  your 
American  jedgement  goes  soopreme  as  to  how 
you  plays  it.' 

"This  Wilkins  lives  in  a  wickeyup  out  on  the 
aige  of  the  town,  an'  a  girl,  which  she's  his 
daughter,  about  19  years  old,  keeps  camp  for  him. 
No  one  knows  her  well.  She  stays  on  her  reser- 
vation mighty  close,  an'  never  seems  visible 
much.  I  notices  her  in  the  New  York  Store 
once,  buyin'  some  salt  hoss,  an'  she  ain't  no  dream 
of  loveliness  neither  as  to  looks. 

"  Her  face  makes  you  feel  she's  good  people 
though,  with  her  big  soft  eyes.  They  has  a  tired, 
broke-down  look,  like  somehow  she's  been  packed 
more'n  she  can  carry,  an'  has  two  or  three  no- 
tions about  layin'  down  with  the  load. 

"  It's  mebby  two  weeks  after  Dave  Tutt's  talk 
with  Wilkins,  when  we're  all  in  the  Red  Light 
takin'  our  forty  drops,  an'  Sam  Enright  brings 
up  this  yere  Wilkins. 

"  *  It  has  been  a  question  with  me/  he  says, 
'  how  this  old  shorthorn  and  his  girl  manages 
for  to  make  out ;  an'  while  I  care  none  whatever 
for  Wilkins,  it  ain't  no  credit  to  a  live  camp  like 
this  to  permit  a  young  female  to  suffer,  an'  I 
pauses  yere  to  add,  it  ain't  goin'  to  occur  no 
more.  Yesterday,  allowin'  to  bushwhack  some 
trooth  about  'em,  I  waits  till  old  Wilkins  drifts 


The  Story  of  Wilkins.  29 

over  to  the  corral,  an'  then  I  goes  projectin' 
'round  for  facts.  I  works  it  plenty  cunnin',  an' 
sorter  happens  up  to  the  old  man's  tepee.  I 
calls  the  girl  out  an'  puts  it  up  I  wants  to  see  her 
paw  a  heap  on  some  business. 

"  *  "  I  wants  to  see  him  speshul,"  '  I  says. 

«t  <  «  Well,  he  ain't  here  now,"  '  says  the  girl, 
"  so  whatever'll  you  do  ?  " 

" '"  I  don't  reckon  you  could  prance  'round 
some  an'  find  him  for  me,  could  you,  Miss?  "  '  I 
says. 

"  '  So  the  girl,'  continues  Enright,  '  which  her 
name  is  Susan,  puts  on  her  shaker  an'  goes  stam- 
pedin'  off ;  an'  while  she's  gone  I  injuns  an'  spies 
'round  a  whole  lot ;  an',  comin'  down  to  the  turn, 
Wilkins  an'  that  girl  ain't  got  nothin'  to  eat. 
The  question  now  is,  what  action  does  Wolfville 
'naugerate  at  a  juncture  sech  as  this?  ' 

"  '  What's  the  matter  with  takin'  up  a  donation 
like  they  does  for  a  preacher,  an'  saw  it  onto  the 
girl  ?  '  says  Dan  Boggs. 

" '  You  couldn't  open  your  game  that  a-way, 
nohow/  says  Doc  Peets.  '  That's  accordin'  to 
Hoyle  for  sky-pilots  an'  missionary  people  ;  but 
a  young  female  a-holdin'  of  herse'f  high  spurns 
your  money.  Thar's  nothin*  ketches  me  like  a 
female  of  my  species  in  distress,  an'  I  recalls 
offerin'  to  stake  a  lady,  who's  lost  her  money 
somehow,  back  in  St.  Looey  once.  This  yere 
female  was  strange  to  me  entire,  but  if  she'd 


30  Wolfville. 

knowed  me  from  'way  back  she  couldn't  a-blazed 
up  more  frightful.  The  minute  I  pulls  my  bank- 
roll on  her,  she  goes  cavortin'  off  too  hostile  to 
talk.  It  takes  ten  minutes  to  get  her  back  to 
the  agency  to  hear  me  'pologize,  an'  even  then 
she  glares  an'  snorts  like  she's  liable  to  stampede 
ag'in.  No  ;  you  don't  want  to  try  an'  give  this 
girl  no  money.  What  we-alls  needs  is  to  hunt  up 
somethin'  for  her  to  work  at  an'  pay  her.' 

"'The  Doc's  right,'  says  Enright,  'an'  the 
thing  is  to  find  somethin'  for  this  yere  lady  to  do. 
Any  gent  with  a  notion  on  the  subject  can't 
speak  too  quick.' 

" '  No  party  need  take  my  remarks  as  per- 
sonal,' says  Burns,  who  runs  the  Red  Light,  '  as 
nothin'  invidjous  is  intended  ;  but  I  rises  to  say 
that  a  heap  of  my  business  is  on  credit.  A  gent 
comes  in  free  an'  sociable,  names  his  sozodont, 
an*  gets  it.  If  he  pays  cash,  all  right ;  if  he 
wants  credit,  all  right.  "  You  names  your  day  to 
drink,  an'  you  names  your  day  to  pay,"  is  my 
motto,  as  you-alls  knows.  This  bein'  troo,  onder 
present  exigences  what  for  a  scheme  -would  it  be 
for  me  to  get  an  outfit  of  books, — day-books, 
week-books,  ledgers,  an'  the  rest  of  the  layout,—- 
an'  let  this  yere  maiden  keep  'em  a  whole  lot? 
I  throws  this  out  as  a  su'gestion.' 

"  '  I  ain't  meanin*  nothin'  ag'inst  Burns's  su'- 
gestion,' says  Texas  Thompson,  '  but  in  my  opin- 
ion this  camp  ain't  ripe  for  keepin'  books  as  yet. 


OLD  MAN  EN  RIGHT. — Page  3! 


The  Story  of  Wilkins.  3 J 

Things  like  that  has  to  be  come  to  by  degrees. 
I've  knowed  a  heap  of  trouble  arise  from  keepin' 
books,  an'  as  long  as  this  yere's  a  peaceful  camp 
let's  keep  it  that  a-way.' 

"  '  That  settles  it,'  says  Burns,  *  thar's  enough 
said,  an'  I  don't  keep  no  books.' 

"'You-alls  present  knows  me/  says  Cherokee 
Hall,  who,  as  I  says  previous,  is  turnin'  faro  in 
the  Red  Light,  *  an'  most  of  you  has  met  me 
frequent  in  a  business  way.  Thar's  my  game 
goin'  every  night  reg'lar.  Thar's  nothin'  tin-horn 
about  it.  It  ain't  no  skin  game  neither.  Any 
gent  with  doubts  can  step  over  an'  test  my  box, 
which  he'll  find  all  comfortable  on  the  layout 
awaitin'  his  convenience.  It  ain't  been  usual  for 
me  to  blow  my  own  bazoo  to  any  extent,  an'  I 
only  does  it  now  as  bein'  preliminary  to  the 
statement  that  my  game  ain't  no  deadfall,  an'  is 
one  as  a  respectable  an'  virchus  female  person 
could  set  in  on  with  perfect  safetytood  to  her 
reputation.  This  yere  lady  in  question  needs 
light,  reg'lar  employment,  an'  I  lets  it  fly  that  if 
she  wants  in  on  any  sech  deal  I'll  go  her  a  blue 
stack  a  week  to  hold  down  the  chair  as  look-out 
for  my  game.' 

"  '  Cherokee's  offer  is  all  right,'  says  Enright  , 
'  it's  good  talk  from  a  squar*  man.  Women, 
however,  is  partic'lar,  an'  like  hosses  they  shies 
at  things  thar  ain't  no  danger  in.  You  sees  how 
that  is  ;  a  woman  don't  reason  nothin',  she  feels; 


32  Wolfville. 

an'  mighty  likely  this  young  person  is  loaded  to 
the  gyards  with  sech  notions  ag'in  gamblin'  as 
would  send  her  flyin'  at  the  bare  mention.  The 
fact  is;  I  thinks  of  somethin'  sim'lar,  but  has  to 
give  it  up.  I  riggers,  first  dash  out  o'  the  box, 
that  a  safe,  easy  trail  to  high  ground  is  to  give 
her  a  table  an*  let  her  deal  a  little  stud  for  the 
boys.  This  yere  wouldn't  be  no  resk,  an'  the 
rake  is  a  shore  thing  for  nine  or  ten  dollars  a 
nightc  Bein'  a  benev'lence,  I  knows  the  boys 
would  set  in  mighty  free,  an'  the  trouble  would 
be  corraled  right  thar.  With  this  yere  in  my 
mind  I  taps  her  gently  about  our  various  games 
when  I  calls  for  her  paw;  an'  to  put  it  straight, 
she  takes  it  reluctant  an'  disgusted  at  the  mere 
hint.  Of  course  we-alls  has  to  stand  these  things 
from  woman,  an'  we  might  as  well  p'int  up  some 
other  way  an'  no  time  lost.' 

"  *  Don't  you-alls  reckon  for  to  make  a  speshul 
rake  on  all  poker  goin',  same  as  about  that  Yal- 
lerhouse  gent,  might  be  an  ondefeasible  way  to 
get  at  the  neck  of  this  business?'  says  Dave 
Tutt.  *  I  merely  asks  it  as  a  question.' 

"  '  That  wouldn't  do,'  says  Doc  Peets,  *  but  any- 
how yere  comes  Wilkins  now,  an'  if,  as  Enright 
says,  they're  out  of  chuck  up  his  way,  I  reckons 
I'll  lose  a  small  bet  to  the  old  shorthorn  ontil  sech 
times  as  we  devises  some  scheme  all  reg'lar ' 

"'Howdy,  Wilkins?'  says  Doc,  mighty  gay 
an'  genial,  'how's  things  stackin'  up?' 


The  Story  of  Wilkins,  33 

"  '  Mighty  ornery/  says  Wilkins. 

"  *  Feel  like  makin'  a  little  wager  this  A.  M.  ? ' 
says  Doc. 

"  '  What  do  you-all  want  to  gamble  at  ?  '  says 
Wilkins. 

"  '  Oh,'  says  Doc,  '  I'm  feelin'  a  heap  careless 
about  what  I  do  gamble  at.  S'pose  I  goes  you 
ten  dollars's  worth  of  grub  the  Lordsburg  buck- 
board  don't  show  up  none  to-day  ? ' 

"  *  If  I  had  ten  dollars  I'd  about  call  you  a  lot 
on  that/  says  Wilkins,  *  but  I'm  a  pore  cuss  an' 
ain't  got  no  ten  dollars,  an'  what's  the  use? 
None  of  you-alls  ain't  got  no  Red  Light  whiskey- 
chips  you  ain't  usin',  be  you  ?  S'pose  you-alls 
gropes  about  in  your  war-bags  an*  sees.  I'm 
needin'  of  a  drink  mighty  bad.' 

"  Old  Wilkins  looks  some  queer  about  the 
eyes,  an'  more'n  usual  shaky,  so  we  gives  him  a 
big  drink  an'  he  sorter  braces  up. 

"  '  I'll  back  Wilkins's  end  of  that  bet  you  offers, 
Doc/  says  Tutt,  '  so  consider  it  made,  will  you  ?' 

" '  You  was  offerin'  to  bet  grub/  says  the  old 
man,  powerful  peevish  an'  fretful.  '  What  for  do 
you  want  to  bet  grub  ?  Why  don't  you  bet 
money,  so  I  gets  what  I  wants  with  it  ?  It's  my 
money  when  I  wins.  Mebby  I  don't  want  no 
grub.  Mebby  I  wants  clothes  or  whiskey.  You 
ain't  no  sport,  Doc,  to  tie  up  a  play  with  a  string 
like  that.  Gimme  another  drink  some  one,  I'm 
most  dyin'  for  some.' 


34  WolfviHe* 

"  The  old  man  'pears  like  he's  mighty  sick  that 
a-way,  so  thar's  nothin'  for  it  but  to  give  him  an- 
other hooker,  which  we  does  accordin'. 

"  *  I'm  feelin'  like  I  was  shot  hard  by  something' 
he  says,  *  an'  I  don't  like  for  to  go  home  till  I'm 
better,  an'  scare  Sue.  I  reckon  I'll  camp  down 
on  this  yere  monte  table  for  an  hour  till  I  comes 
'round.' 

"  So  Wilkins  curls  up  on  the  table,  an'  no  one 
notices  him  for  about  twenty  minutes,  when 
along  comes  rattlin'  up  the  Lordsburg  mail. 

"  '  You  win,  Wilkins,'  says  Peets  ;  l  come  over 
to  the  New  York  Store  an'  cut  out  your  stuff.' 

"  The  old  man  acts  like  he  don't  hear,  so  Doc 
shakes  him  up  some.  No  use,  thar  ain't  no  get 
up  in  him. 

"'  Looks  like  he's  gone  to  sleep  for  good,'  says 
Doc. 

"  Then  he  walks  'round  him,  shakes  him,  an* 
takes  a  look  at  his  eye,  a-openin'  of  it  with  his 
finger.  Finally  he  stands  back,  sticks  his  thumb 
in  his  belt,  an'  whistles. 

"'What's  up?'  says  Cherokee  Hall.  « He 
ain't  tryin'  to  work  us  for  another  drink  I  hopes.' 

"  '  Well,  this  is  a  deal,'  says  Doc,  '  an'  no  hum- 
bug neither.  Gents,  I'm  blessed  if  this  yere  old 
prairie-dog  ain't  shorely  up  an*  died.' 

"  We-alls  comes  up  an'  takes  a  look  at  him,  an* 
Doc  has  called  the  turn.  Shore  enough  the  old 
man  has  cashed  in. 


The  Story  of  Wiikins.  35 

" '  This  is  a  boss  on  us,  an'  no  doubt  about  it,' 
says  Enright.  *  I  ai'n't  worryin'  for  Wilkins,  as 
he  most  likely  is  ahead  on  the  deal ;  but  what 
gets  me  is  how  to  break  the  news  to  this  yere 
maiden.  It's  goin'  to  be  a  hair-line  play.  I 
reckons,  Doc,  it's  you  an'  me.' 

"  So  they  goes  over  to  Wilkins's  wickeyup  an' 
calls  the  young  Sue  girl  out,  an'  Enright  begins 
tellin'  her  mighty  soft  as  how  her  paw  is  took 
bad  down  to  the  Red  Light.  But  the  girl  seems 
to  get  it  as  right  as  if  she's  scouted  for  it  a 
month. 

"  *  He's  dead  ! '  she  says  ;  an*  then  cripples 
down  along  side  of  the  door  an'  begins  to  sob. 

"  '  Thar  ain't  no  use  denyin'  it,  Miss,'  says  En- 
right,  '  your  paw  struck  in  on  the  big  trail  where 
the  hoof-prints  all  p'ints  one  way.  But  don't 
take  it  hard,  Miss,  thar  ain't  a  gent  don't  give 
you  sympathy.  What  you  do  now  is  stay  right 
yere,  an'  the  camp'll  tend  to  the  funeral,  an'  put 
it  up  right  an*  jest  as  you  says, — you  bein' 
mourner-in-chief.  You  can  trust  us  for  the 
proper  play  ;  since  we  buries  Jack  King,  obse- 
quies is  our  long  suit.' 

"  The  little  Sue  girl  struggles  through  some- 
how, an'  has  her  nerve  with  her.  The  funeral, 
you  bet,  is  right.  This  time  we  ropes  in  a 
preacher  belongin'to  some  deep-water  outfit  over 
in  Tucson.  He  somehow  is  strayed,  an*  happens 
along  our  way,  an*  we  gets  him  squar'  in  the 


36  Wolfville* 

door.  He  jumps  in  an'  gives  them  ceremonies  a 
scientific  whirl  as  ain't  possible  nohow  to  ama- 
tures.  All  'round  we  wouldn't  have  put  on 
more  dog  if  we'd  been  plantin'  Enright ;  all  of 
course  on  the  little  Sue  girl's  account.  Next 
day  the  outfit  goes  over  to  find  out  whatever  she 
allows  to  do, 

"  '  You  sees,  Miss/  says  Enright, '  anythin'  you 
says,  goes.  Not  waitin'  to  learn  its  name,  even, 
I'm  directed  to  state  as  how  the  camp  backs  your 
play  an'  makes  good.' 

" '  I'm  allowin'  to  go  to  the  States/  says  the 
girl,  '  an*  I'm  obleeged  to  you.' 

" '  We  was  hopin'/  says  Enright,  '  as  you'd 
stay  yere.  We-alls  sorter  figgers  you'd  teach 
us  a  school.  Of  course  thar  ain't  no  papooses 
yet,  but  as  a  forced  play  we  arranges  to  borrow 
a  small  herd  from  Tombstone,  an'  can  do  it  too 
easy.  Then,  ag'in,  a  night-school  would  hit  our 
needs  right ;  say  one  night  a  week.  Thar's  a 
heap  of  ignorance  in  this  yere  camp,  an'  we  needs 
a  night-school  bad.  It  would  win  for  fifty  dol- 
lars a  week,  Miss  ;  an'  you  thinks  of.it.' 

"  No,  the  pore  girl  couldn't  think  of  it  nohow. 

"'Of  course,  Miss/  says  Enright,  'we  alls 
ain't  expectin*  you  to  open  this  yere  academy 
the  first  kyards  off  the  deck.  You  needs  time  to 
line  up  your  affairs,  an'  am  likewise  wrung  with 
grief.  You  takes  your  leesure  as  to  that ;  mean- 
while of  course  your  stipend  goes  on  from  now/ 


The  Story  of  Wilkins*  37 

"  But  the  little  Sue  girl  couldn't  listen.  Her 
paw  is  dead,  an*  now  she's  due  in  the  States.  She 
says  things  is  all  right  thar.  She  has  friends  as 
her  paw  never  likes  ;  but  who's  friends  of  hers, 
an*  she'll  go  to  them. 

"  '  Well,  Miss,'  says  Enright,  mighty  regretful, 
'  if  that's  how  it  lays,  I  reckons  you'll  go,  so 
thar's  nothin'  for  us  to  do  but  settle  up  an'  fork 
over  some  dust  we  owes  your  paw.  He  bein' 
now  deceased,  of  course  you  represents.' 

"The  girl  couldn't  see  how  any  one  owes  her 
paw, '  'cause  he's  been  too  sick  to  work,'  she  says. 

"  *  We  owes  him  all  the  same/  says  Enright, 
mighty  ferocious.  *  We  onderstands  well  enough 
how  we  comes  to  owe  him,  don't  we,  Doc? ' 

" '  You  can  stack  in  your  life  we  do,'  says  Doc, 
plenty  prompt  an'  cheerful.  '  We-alls  owes  for 
his  nailin'  them  hoss-thiefs  when  they  tries  to 
clean  out  the  corral.' 

" '  That's  it,'  says  Enright,  *  for  ketchin*  of 
some  rustlers  who  lays  for  our  stock.  It's  all 
right,  Miss  ;  you  needn't  look  so  doubtful.  You 
wouldn't  if  you  knowed  this  camp.  It's  the  last 
outfit  on  earth  as  would  go  an'  give  money  to 
people.  It's  a  good  straight  camp,  Wolfville  is; 
but  business  is  business,  an'  we  ain't  pirootin' 
'round  none,  givin'  nothin'  away,  be  we,  Doc  ? ' 

"  *  Not  much/  says  Doc.  '  It's  enough  for  a 
gejit  to  pay  debts,  without  stampedin'  'round 
makin'  presents  of  things.' 


38  Wolfville. 

"'That's  whatever/  says  Enright ;  'so  Miss, 
me  an  Doc'll  vamos  over  to  the  Red  Light  an' 
get  the  dust,  an'  I  reckons  we'll  be  back  in  an 
hour.  I  s'pose  we  owes  Mister  Wilkins  about 
five  hundred  dollars,  don't  we,  Doc?' 

" '  'Tain't  so  much,'  says  Doc,  who's  guileful 
that  a-way.  As  he  sees  the  little  Sue  girl  archin' 
for  another  buck,  he  pulls  out  a  paper  an'  makes 
a  bluff.  'Yere  it  is, — four  hundred  an'  ninety- 
three  dollars  an'  seventy-four  cents.  I  puts  it 
down  all  accurate,  'cause  I  don't  allow  no  sharp 
to  come  'round  an'  beat  me  none.' 

"  We-alls  throws  'round  an'  makes  up  the  pot 
to  come  to  Doc's  figger — which  I  wants  to  say 
right  yere,  Doc  Peets  is  the  ablest  gent  I  ever 
sees — an'  the  little  Sue  girl  has  to  take  it. 

"Which  this  money  lets  her  out  right,  an' 
she  cries  an'  thanks  us,  an'  the  next  day  she 
takes  the  stage  for  Tucson.  We're  thar  to  say 
'  good-by '  an'  wish  the  little  Sue  girl  luck. 

"  '  Adiosl  says  Peets,  takin'  off  his  hat  to  her; 
'  it  ain't  down  on  the  bills  none,  but  if  you-all 
con  Id :  manage  to  kiss  this  yere  outfit  once  apiece, 
Miss,  it  would  be  regarded.  You  needn't  be 
afraid.  Some  of  'em  looks  a  little  off,  but 
they're  all  right,  an'  b'ar  huggin'  is  barred/ 

"  So  the  little  Sue  girl  begins  with  Enright  an' 
kisses  us  all,  a-sobbin'  meantime  some  free.  As 
the  affection  proceeds,  Cherokee  sorter  shoves 
back  an*  allows  he'll  pass. 


The  Story  of  Wilkins.  39 

"  '  Not  any  pass ! '  says  Enright.  '  Any  gent 
who  throws  off  on  that  thar  little  Sue  girl,  she 
willin',  needn't  look  for  any  luck  but  lynchinY 

" '  That  settles  it,'  says  Cherokee,  '  I  saloots 
this  yere  lady.' 

"  So  he  ups  an*  kisses  the  little  Sue  girl  like 
she's  a  hot  flat-iron,  an'  backs  into  the  crowd. 

"  *  Cherokee  makes  me  tired,'  says  Peets,  who's 
ridin'  herd  on  the  play.  When  it  comes  his  turn 
he  kisses  her  slow  an'  rapturous,  an'  is  contemptu- 
ous of  Cherokee. 

"  When  she's  in  the  stage  a-startin',  Cherokee 
walks  up,  all  respectful. 

" '  You've  been  away  from  the  States  some 
time,  Miss/  he  says,  *  an'  it's  an  even  break  you 
won't  find  things  the  way  you  expects.  Now,  you 
remember,  shore  ;  whatever  game's  bein'  turned 
back  thar,  if  it  goes  ag'in  you,  raise  the  long  yell 
for  a  sharp  called  Cherokee  Hall ;  an'  his  bank's 
yours  to  go  behind  your  play.'  ' 


CHAPTER  IV* 
The  Washwoman's  Wan 

IT  was  evening.  The  first  dark  foreshadowing 
of  the  coming  night  clothed  all  in  half  obscurity. 
But  I  knew  the  way ;  I  could  have  travelled  the 
little  path  at  midnight.  There  he  was,  the  Old 
Cattleman,  under  a  favorite  tree,  the  better  to 
avoid  the  heavy  dew.  He  sat  motionless  and 
seemed  to  be  soaking  himself,  as  one  might  say, 
in  the  balmy  weather  of  that  hour. 

My  wisdom  had  ordered  Jim,  my  black  man, 
to  attend  my  steps.  The  laconic,  half-sad  salu- 
tation of  my  old  friend  at  once  gave  Black  Jim  a 
mission.  He  was  dispatched  in  quest  of  stimu- 
lants. After  certain  exact  and  almost  elaborate 
commands  to  Black  Jim,  and  that  useful  African's 
departure,  I  gently  probed  my  companion  with  a 
question. 

"  No,  thar's  nothin'  the  matter  of  me;  sorter 
pensive,  that's  all,"  was  my  return. 

The  Old  Cattleman  appeared  silent  and  out  of 
sorts.  Following  the  coming  of  Black  Jim,  how- 
ever, who  brought  a  lusty  toddy,  he  yielded  to  a 
better  mood. 


The  Washwoman's  War.  41 

"  It  simply  means  I'm  gettin'  old ;  my  settin' 
'round  balky  this  a-way.  Thar's  some  seventy 
wrinkles  on  my  horns  ;  nothin'  young  or  recent 
about  that.  Which  now  it  often  happens  to  me, 
like  it  does  to  old  folks  general,  that  jest  when 
it  begins  to  grow  night,  I  gets  moody  an'  bad. 
Looks  like  my  thoughts  has  been  out  on  some 
mental  feed-ground  all  day,  an'  they  comes 
stringin'  in  like  cattle  to  get  bedded  down  for 
the  night.  Nacheral,  I  s'pose  they  sorter  mills 
an'  stands  'round  oneasy  like  for  a  while  before 
they  lies  down  all  comfortable.  Old  people 
partic'lar  gets  dissatisfied.  If  they's  single- 
footers  like  me  an'  ain't  wedded  none  ;  campin' 
'round  at  taverns  an'  findin'  of  'em  mockeries  ; 
they  wishes  they  has  a  wife  a  whole  lot.  If  they 
be,  they  wish  she'd  go  visit  her  folks.  Gettin' 
old  that  a-way  an'  lonely  makes  folks  frequent 
mighty  contrary. 

"  No,  as  I  imparts  to  you  yeretofore, — mebby 
it's  a  month, — I  never  marries  nothin'.  I  reckons 
too,  I'm  in  love  one  round-up  an*  another  mighty 
near  a  dozen  times.  But  somehow  I  allers  lose  the 
trail  an'  never  does  run  up  with  none  of  'em  once. 

"  Down  in  the  Brazos  country  thar  was  a  little 
blue-eyed  girl, — back  forty  years  it  is, — an'  the 
way  I  adores  her  plumb  tires  people.  I  reckons 
I  ropes  at  her  more'n  fifty  times,  but  I  never 
could  fasten.  Thar  comes  a  time  when  it  looks 
powerful  like  I'm  goin'  to  run  my  brand  onto 


42  Wolfville. 

her;  but  she  learns  that  Bill  Jenks  marks  150 
calves  the  last  spring  round-up,  an'  me  only  forty, 
an'  that  settles  it ;  she  takes  Jenks. 

"  It's  astonishin'  how  little  I  deems  of  this 
yere  maiden  after  Bill  gets  her.  Two  months 
before,  I'd  rode  my  pony  to  death  to  look  once 
in  her  eyes.  She's  like  sunshine  in  the  woods  to 
me,  an'  I  dotes  on  every  word  she  utters  like  it's 
a  roast  apple.  But  after  she  gets  to  be  Bill's 
wife  I  cools  complete. 

"  Not  that  lovin'  Bill's  wife,  with  his  genius 
for  shootin'  a  pistol,  is  goin'  to  prove  a  picnic, — 
an'  him  sorter  peevish  an'  hostile  nacheral.  But 
lettin*  that  go  in  the  discard,  I  shore  don't  care 
nothin'  about  her  nohow  when  she's  Bill's. 

"  I  recalls  that  prior  to  them  nuptials  with  Bill 
I  gets  that  locoed  lovin'  this  girl  I  goes  bulgin' 
out  to  make  some  poetry  over  her.  I  compiles 
one  stanza;  an'  I'm  yere  to  remark  it's  harder 
work  than  a  June  day  in  a  brandin'  pen.  Ropin' 
an'  flankin'  calves  an'  standin'  off  an  old  cow 
with  one  hand  while  you  irons  up  her  offspring 
with  t'other,  from  sun-up  till  dark,  is  sedentary 
compared  to  makin'  stanzas.  What  was  the  one 
I  makes?  Well,  you  can  bet  a  hoss  I  ain't  for- 
got it  none. 

" '  A  beautiful  woman  is  shorely  a  moon, 

The  nights  of  your  life  to  illoomine ; 
She's  all  that  is  graceful,  guileful  an'  soon, 
Is  woman,  lovely  woman.' 


The  Washwoman's  War*  43 

"  I'm  plumb  tangled  up  in  my  rope  when  I  gets 
this  far,  an'  I  takes  a  lay-off.  Before  I  gathers 
strength  to  tackle  it  ag'in,  Jenks  gets  her;  so 
bein*  thar's  no  longer  nothin'  tharin  I  never 
makes  a  finish.  I  allers  allowed  it  would  have 
been  a  powerful  good  poem  if  I'd  stampeded 
along  cl'ar  through. 

"  Yes,  son  ;  women  that  a-way  is  shorely  rangy 
cattle  an'  allers  on  the  move.  Thar's  a  time 
once  when  two  of  'em  comes  mighty  near  split- 
tin'  Wolfville  wide  open  an'  leavin'  it  on  both 
sides  of  the  trail.  All  that  ever  saves  the  day  is 
the  ca'm  jedgementan'  promptitood  of  Old  Man 
Enright. 

"  This  is  how  Wolfville  walks  into  this  petti- 
coat ambush.  The  camp  is  gettin'  along  all 
peaceful  an'  serene  an'  man-fashion.  Thar's  the 
post-office  for  our  letters ;  thar's  the  Red  Light 
for  our  bug-juice  ;  thar's  the  O.  K.  Restauraw 
for  our  grub ;  an'  thar's  the  stage  an*  our 
ponies  to  pull  our  freight  with  when  Wolf- 
ville life  begins  to  pall  on  us  as  too  pastoral, 
an'  we  thirsts  for  the  meetropolitan  gayety  of 
Tucson. 

"As  I  says,  we-alls  has  all  that  heart  can  hun- 
ger for ;  that  is  hunger  on  the  squar'. 

"  Among  other  things,  thar's  a  Chink  runnin' 
a  laundry  an'  a-doin'  of  our  washin'.  This  yere 
tub-trundler's  name  is  Lung,  which,  however, 
brands  no  cattle  yere. 


44  Wolfville* 

"  It's  one  afternoon  when  Doc  Peets  gets  a 
letter  from  a  barkeep  over  in  Tucson  sayin' : 

DEAR  Doc : 

Thar's  an  esteemable  lady  due  in  Wolfville  on 
to-morrer's  stage.  She's  p'intin'  out  to  run  a  laundry. 
Please  back  her  play.  If  thar's  a  Chinaman  in  town,  run 
him  out. 

And  obleege,  yours, 

DICK. 

"  '  Whatever  do  you  think,  Enright?'  says  Doc 
Peets  after  readin'  us  the  letter. 

"  *  That's  all  right,'  says  Enright,  '  the  Chink 
goes.  It's  onbecomin'  as  a  spectacle  for  a  Cau- 
casian woman  of  full  blood  to  be  contendin'  for 
foul  shirts  with  a  slothful  Mongol.  Wolfville 
permits  no  sech  debasin'  exhibitions,  an'  Lung 
must  vamos.  Jack,'  he  says,  turnin'  to  Jack 
Moore,  '  take  your  gun  an'  sa'nter  over  an' 
stampede  this  yere  opium-slave.  Tell  him  if  he's 
visible  to  the  naked  eye  in  the  scenery  yere- 
abouts  to-morrow  when  this  lady  jumps  into 
camp,  he's  shore  asked  the  price  of  soap  the  last 
time  he  ever  will  in  this  vale  of  tears.' 

" '  What's  the  matter  of  lynchin'  this  yere 
Chink  ?  '  says  Dan  Boggs.  *  The  camp's  deadly 
dull,  an'  it  would  cheer  up  things  a  whole  lot, 
besides  bein'  compliments  to  this  young  female 
Old  Monte's  bringin'  in  on  the  stage.' 

"  '  Oh  no,'  says  Enright,  '  no  need  of  stringin* 


The  Washwoman's  War.  45 

him  none.  On  second  thought,  Jack,  I  don't 
reckon  I'd  run  him  out  neither.  It  dignifies  him 
too  much.  S'pose  you  canter  up  to  his  tub-camp 
an'  bring  him  over,  an'  we'll  reveal  this  upheaval 
in  his  shirt-burnin'  destinies  by  word  of  mouth. 
If  he  grows  reluctant  jest  rope  him  'round  the 
neck  with  his  queue,  an'  yank  him.  It  impresses 
'em  an'  shows  'em  they're  up  ag'in  the  law.  I 
s'pose,  Peets,  I  voices  your  sentiments  in  this?' 

"  '  Shore,"  says  Doc  Peets — which  this  Peets  is 
the  finest-eddicated  man  I  ever  meets.  'This 
Chinaman  must  pull  his  freight.  We-alls  owes  it 
not  only  to  this  Tucson  lady,  but  to  the  lovely 
sex  she  represents.  Woman,  woman,  what  has 
she  not  done  for  man  !  As  Johanna  of  Arc  she 
frees  the  sensuous  vine-clad  hills  of  far-off  Swit- 
zerland. As  Grace  Darling  she  smooths  the 
fever-heated  pillow  of  the  Crimea.  In  reecom- 
pense  she  asks  one  little,  puny  boon — to  fire  from 
our  midst  a  heathen  from  the  Orient.  Gents, 
thar's  but  one  answer :  We  plays  the  return  game 
with  woman.  This  Chinaman  must  go.' 

"  When  Jack  comes  back  with  Lung,  which  he 
does  prompt,  Enright  starts  in  to  deal  the  game. 

"  '  It  ain't  no  use,  Lung,'  says  Enright,  *  tryin' 
to  explain  to  you-all  what's  up.  Your  weak 
Asiatic  intellect  couldn't  get  the  drop  onto  it  no- 
how. You've  been  brought  to  a  show-down 
ag'in  a  woman,  an'  you're  out-held.  You've  got 
to  quit ;  savey  ?  Don't  let  us  find  you  yere  to- 


46  Wolfville* 

morrow.  By  third-drink  time  we'll  be  a-scoutin' 
for  you  with  somethin'  besides  an  op'ry  glass,  an' 
if  you're  noticed  as  part  of  the  landscape  you're 
goin'  to  have  a  heap  of  bad  luck.  I'd  advise  you 
to  p'int  for  Red  Dog,  but  as  to  that  you  plays 
your  hand  yourse'f.' 

"  Next  day  that  old  drunkard  Monte  comes 
swingin'  in  with  the  stage ;  the  six  hosses  on  the 
jump,  same  as  he  allers  does  with  a  woman  along. 
Over  at  the  post-office,  where  he  stops,  a  lady 
gets  out,  an'  of  course  we-alls  bows  p'lite  an' 
hopes  she's  well  an'  frisky.  She  allows  she  is,  an' 
heads  for  the  O.  K.  House. 

"  It  floats  over  pretty  soon  that  her  name's 
Annie,  an'  as  none  of  us  wants  to  call  her  jest 
1  Annie' — the  same  bein'  too  free  a  play — an'  hear- 
in'  she  lives  a  year  or  two  at  Benson,  we  con- 
cloods  to  call  her  Benson  Annie,  an'  let  it  go  at 
that. 

"  'The  same  bein'  musical  an'  expressive/  says 
Doc  Peets,  as  we  all  lines  up  ag'in  the  Red 
Light  bar,  *  I  su'gestswe  baptize  this  lady  "  Ben- 
son Annie,"  an'  yere's  to  her  success.', 

"  So  we-alls  turns  up  our  glasses,  an'  Benson 
Annie  it  is. 

"  The  next  day  the  fetid  Lung  is  a  thing  of 
the  past,  an'  Benson  Annie  has  the  game  to  her- 
se'f.  Two  days  later  she  raises  the  tariff  to  fifty 
cents  on  shirts,  instead  of  twenty-five,  as  previous 
with  the  Chink.  But  no  one  renigs. 


The  Washwoman's  Wan  47 

"  '  A  gent,'  says  Doc  Peets,  '  as  holds  that  a 
Caucasian  woman  is  goin'  to  wash  a  shirt  for  the 
miserable  stipend  of  a  slave  of  the  Orient  must 
be  plumb  locoed.  Wolfville  pays  fifty  cents  for 
shirts  an'  is  proud  tharof.' 

"  Things  goes  along  for  mighty  like  a  month, 
an'  then  this  yere  Benson  Annie  allows  she'll 
have  a  visitor. 

*'  '  I'm  plumb,  clean  sick,'  she  says,  'of  seein' 
nothin'  but  a  lot  of  drunken,  good-for-nothin' 
sots  a-pesterin'  'round,  an'  I  done  reckons  I'll 
have  my  friend  Sal  come  over  from  Tombstone 
an'  see  me  a  whole  lot.  It'll  be  some  relaxa- 
tion.' 

"  Mebby  it's  four  days  after  when  this  yere 
Sal  hops  outen  the  stage,  an*  for  the  next  week 
thar  ain't  no  washin*  done  whatever,  while  Ben- 
son Annie  an'  Sal  works  the  wire  aige  offen  their 
visit. 

" '  A  gent  as  would  begretch  two  pore,  hard- 
workin'  girls  a  lay-off  of  a  week,'  says  Enright, 
'ain't  clean  strain,  an'  I  don't  want  to  know  sech 
a  hoss-thief  nohow' ;  an'  we-alls  feels  likewise. 

"  But  slap  on  the  heels  of  all  this  yere  gregar'- 
ousness  on  the  part  of  Benson  Annie  an'  Sal, 
the  deal  begins  to  come  queer.  At  the  end  of 
the  week  the  two  girls  has  a  row,  an'  in  the  turn 
Sal  goes  to  t'other  end  of  camp  an'  opens  a  laun- 
dry. That  does  settle  it.  Benson  Annie  gives 
Sal  fits,  an'  Sal  shorely  sends  'em  back.  Then 


48  Wolfville. 

they  quits  speakin',  an  when  they  meets  on  the 
street  they  concocts  snoots  at  each  other.  This 
scares  Enright,  but  he  does  his  level  best  an'  tries 
to  keep  the  boys  from  takin'  sides. 

" '  In  a  play  like  this  yere,'  he  says,  '  this  camp 
don't  take  no  kyards.  For  the  first  time  Wolf- 
ville  passes  out,  an'  offers  to  make  it  a  jack/ 

"  But  as  one  day  an'  the  next  trails  by,  the 
boys  sorter  gets  lined  up  one  way  an'  t'other; 
some  for  Benson  Annie  an'  some  for  Sal,  an' 
things  is  shorely  gettin'  hot.  Hamilton,  over  at 
the  dance-hall,  ups  an'  names  his  place  the  *  Sal 
Saloon,'  an'  Burns  takes  down  the  sign  on  the 
Red  Light  an'  calls  it  the  '  Benson  Annie  House.' 
Finally  things  sorter  culminates. 

"  Dan  Boggs,  who's  a  open,  voylent  Annie 
man,  comes  a-prancin'  into  the  Red  Light  one 
night,  an'  after  stampin'  an'  rappin'  his  horns 
'round  a  whole  lot,  allows  his  shirt  is  cleaner 
than  Dave  Tutt's. 

"  Tutt  says  he  don't  care  nothin'  for  himse'f, 
an'  none  whatever  for  the  shirt ;  an'  while  he  an' 
Dan's  allers  been  friends  an'  crossed  the  plains 
together,  still  he  don't  allow  he'll  stand  'round 
much  an'  see  a  pore  ondefended  female,  like  Sal, 
maligned.  So  Tutt  outs  with  his  gun  an'  gets 
Boggs  in  the  laig. 

"This  yere  brings  things  down  to  cases.  En- 
right  is  worried  sick  at  it.  But  he's  been  thinkin' 
mighty  arduous  for  qufte  a  spell,  an'  when  Boggs 


The  Washwoman's  Wan  49 

gets  creased,  he  sees  somethin'  must  be  done,  an' 
begins  to  line  himse'f  for  a  play  for  out. 

"  It's  the  next  day  after  Boggs  gets  ag'in  Tutt, 
an'  Doc  Peets  has  plugged  up  the  hole,  when 
Enright  rounds  up  the  whole  passel  of  us  in  the 
Red  Light.  He  looks  that  dignified  an'  what 
you-alls  calls  impressive,  that  the  barkeep,  yield- 
in'  to  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  allows  the 
drinks  is  on  the  house.  We-alls  gets  our  forty 
drops,  an'  sorter  stands  pat  tharon  in  silence, 
waitin'  for  Enright  to  onfold  his  game.  We 
shore  knows  if  thar's  a  trail  he'll  find  it. 

"  '  Gents,'  he  says  at  last, — an'  it  seems  like 
he's  sorry  an'  hurt  that  a-way, — *  I'll  not  drift 
into  them  harrowin'  differences  which  has  rent 
asunder  what  was  aforetimes  the  peacefulest 
camp  in  Arizona.  I  wants  you-alls,  however,  to 
take  note  of  my  remarks,  for  what  I  says  is 
shorely  goin'  to  go.' 

"  Yere  Enright  pauses  to  take  a  small  drink  by 
himse'f,  while  we-alls  tarries  about,  some  oneasy 
an'  anxious  as  to  what  kyards  falls  next.  At 
last  Enright  p'ints  out  on  the  trail  of  his  remarks 
ag'in. 

"'  It  is  with  pain  an'  mortification,'  he  says— 
an*  yere  he  fixes  his  eye  some  hard  an'  delib'rate 
on  a  young  tenderfoot  named  French,  who's  been 
lost  from  the  States  somethin'  like  six  months — 
'  it  is  with  pain  an'  mortification,  I  says,  that  I 
notes  for  a  week  past  our  young  friend  an*  towns- 


50  Wolfville. 

man,  Willyum  French,  payin'  marked  an'  ondis- 
creet  attentions  to  Benson  Annie,  a  female 
person  whom  we  all  respects.  At  all  times,  day 
an'  night,  when  he  could  escape  his  dooties  as 
book-keep  for  the  stage  company,  he  has  pitched 
camp  in  hers'ciety.  Wolfville  has  been  shocked, 
an'  a  pure  lady  compromised.  Standin'  as  we- 
alls  does  in  the  light  of  a  parent  to  this  pore 
young  female,  we  have  determined  the  wrong 
must  be  made  right,  an'  Mister  French  must 
marry  the  girl.  I  have  submitted  these  yere 
views  to  Benson  Annie,  an'  she  concurs.  I've 
took  the  trouble  to  bring  a  gospel-sharp  over 
from  Tucson  to  do  the  marryin',  an'  I've  set  the 
happy  event  for  to-night,  to  conclood  with  a 
blow-out  in  the  dance-hall  at  my  expense.  We 
will,  of  course,  yereby  lose  Benson  Annie  in 
them  industrial  walks  she  now  adorns,  for  I 
pauses  to  give  Mister  French  a  p'inter;  the  senti- 
ments of  this  camp  is  ag'in  a  married  female 
takin'  in  washin'.  Not  to  play  it  too  low  down 
on  Mister  French,  who,  while  performin'  a  pri- 
vate dooty,  is  also  workin'  for  a  public  good,  I 
heads  a  subscription  with  fifty  dollars  for  a  pres- 
ent for  the  bride.  I'd  say  in  closin'  that  if  I 
was  Mister  French  I  wouldn't  care  to  object  to 
this  union.  The  lady  is  good-lookin',  the  sub- 
scription is  cash,  an'  in  the  present  heated  condi- 
tion of  the  public  mind,  an'  with  the  heart  of  the 
camp  sot  on  this  weddin',  I  wouldn't  be  respon- 


The  Washwoman's  War.  5 1 

sible  if  he  does.  Now,  gents,  who'll  follow  my 
fifty  dollars  with  fifty  more?  Barkeep,  do  your 
dooty  while  the  subscription-paper  goes  'round.' 

"  The  biddin'  is  mighty  lively,  an'  in  ten  min- 
utes seven  hundred  dollars  is  raised  for  a  dowry. 
Then  French,  who  has  been  settin'  in  a  sort  of 
daze,  gets  up: 

"'Mister  Enright  an'  gents,'  he  says,  'this 
yere  is  a  s'prise-party  to  me,  but  it  goes.  It's  a 
hoss  on  me,  but  I  stands  it.  I  sees  how  it  is,  an' 
as  a  forced  play  I  marries  Benson  Annie  in  the 
interests  of  peace.  Which  the  same  bein'  settled, 
if  Benson  Annie  is  yere,  whirl  her  up  an'  I'll 
come  flutterin'  from  my  perch  like  a  pan  of  milk 
from  a  top  shelf,  an'  put  an  end  to  this  onhealth- 
ful  excitement.' 

"  We-alls  applauds  French  an'  is  proud  to  note 
he's  game. 

"'An'  to  be  free  an'  open  with  you,  French,' 
says  Texas  Thompson,  so  as  to  make  him  feel 
he's  ahead  on  the  deal ;  which  he  shore  is,  for 
this  yere  Benson  Annie  is  corn-fed,  *  if  it  ain't 
for  a  high-sperited  lady  back  in  Laredo  who  re- 
lies on  me,  I'd  be  playin'  your  hand  myse'f.' 

"  Well,  no  one  delays  the  game.  Enright 
brings  over  Benson  Annie,  who's  blushin'  some, 
but  ain't  holdin'  back  ;  an'  she  an'  French  fronts 
up  for  business.  This  yere  preacher-sharp  En- 
right's  roped  up  is  jest  shufflin'  for  the  deal, 
when,  whatever  do  you  reckon  takes  place  ?  I'm 


52  Wolfville* 

a  Mexican  if  this  yere  Sal  don't  come  wanderin' 
in,  a-cryin'  an'  a-mournin'  powerful.  She  allows 
with  sobs  if  her  dear  friend  Annie's  goin'  to  get 
married  she  wants  in  on  the  game  as  bridesmaid. 

"  *  Which  you-all  shorely  gets  a  hand  as  sech,' 
says  Doc  Peets,  who's  actin'  lookout  for  the  deal ; 
an'  so  he  stakes  out  Sal  over  by  the  nigh  side  of 
Benson  Annie,  who  kisses  her  quite  frantic,  an' 
unites  her  wails  to  Sal's.  Both  of  'em  weepin' 
that  a-way  shorely  makes  the  occasion  mighty 
sympathetic  an'  damp.  But  Peets  says  it's  the 
reg'lar  caper,  an'  you  can  gamble  Peets  knows. 

"  '  Thar,'  says  Enright,  when  the  last  kyard's 
out  an'  the  French  fam'ly  is  receivin'  congratula- 
tions, '  I  reckons  that  now,  with  only  one  laun- 
dry, Wolfville  sees  a  season  of  peace.  It's  all 
right,  but  I'm  yere  to  remark  that  the  next  lady 
as  dazzles  this  camp  with  her  deebut,  an'  onfurls 
a  purpose  to  plunge  into  work,  ain't  goin'  to  keep 
a  laundry  none.  Gents,  the  bridle's  plumb  off 
the  hoss.  We'll  now  repair  to  the  dance-hall,  if 
so  be  meets  your  tastes,  an'  take  the  first  steps 
in  a  debauch  from  which,  when  it's  over,  this 
yere  camp  of  Wolfville  dates  time.' " 


.«*• 


CHAPTER  V. 
Enright's  Pard,  Jim  Willis, 

"  IF  my  mem'ry's  dealin'  a  squar'  game,"  re- 
marked the  Old  Cattleman,  as  he  moved  his 
chair  a  bit  more  into  the  shade,  "  it's  some'ers 
over  in  the  foot-hills  of  the  Floridas  when  En- 
right  vouchsafes  why  he  hates  Mexicans." 

The  morning  was  drowsy.  Conversation  be- 
tween us  had  in  a  sleepy  way  ranged  a  wide  field. 
As  had  grown  to  be  our  habit  we  at  last  settled  on 
Wolfville  and  its  volatile  inhabitants.  I  asked  to 
be  enlightened  as  to  the  sage  Enright,  and  was 
informed  that,  aside  from  his  courage  and  love  of 
strict  justice,  the  prominent  characteristic  of  our 
Wolfville  Lycurgus  was  his  wrath  against  Mexi- 
cans. 

"  Not  that  Enright  loathes  so  much  as  he  de- 
plores 'em,"  continued  the  old  gentleman.  "  How- 
ever, I  don't  aim  to  be  held  as  sayin'  he  indorses 
their  existence  a  little  bit ;  none  whatever. 

"  Enright's  tellin'  of  this  tale  arises  outen  a 
trivial  incident  which  a  Mexican  is  the  marrow 
of.  We're  out  on  the  spring  round-up,  an'  comb- 
in*  the  draws  an'  dry  arroyas  over  between  the 


54  Wolfville. 

cow  springs  an'  the  Floridas,  when  one  night  a 
Mexican  runs  off  a  passel  of  our  ponies.  The 
hoss-hustler  is  asleep,  I  reckons,  at  the  time  this 
Mexican  stacks  in.  He  says  himse'f  he's  lyin' 
along  the  back  of  his  bronco  gazin'  at  the  stars 
when  this  robber  jumps  at  the  ponies  an'  flaps  a 
blanket  or  somethin',  an'  away  patters  every  hoof 
in  the  band. 

"This  yere  Mexican  don't  run  off  with  only 
about  a  handful ;  I  takes  it  he  can't  round  up  no 
more  in  the  dark.  When  you-all  stampedes  a 
bunch  of  ponies  that  a-way  they  don't  hold  to- 
gether like  cattle,  but  plunges  off  diffusive.  It's 
every  bronco  for  himse'f,  disdainful  of  all  else, 
an*  when  it's  sun-up  you  finds  'em  spattered  all 
over  the  scene  an'  not  regardin'  of  each  other 
much. 

"  But  this  yere  Mexican,  after  he  stampedes 
'em,  huddles  what  he  can  together — as  I  says 
mebby  it's  a  dozen — an'  p'ints  off  into  the  hills. 

"  Of  course  it  ain't  no  time  after  the  sun  shows 
the  tracks  when  Enright,  Jack  Moore,  an'  myse'f 
is  on  the  trail.  Tutt  an'  Dan  Boggs  wants  in  on 
the  play,  but  we  can't  spar'  so  many  from  the 
round-up. 

"  It's  one  of  the  stolen  ponies  tips  this  Greaser's 
hand.  It's  the  second  day,  an'  we-alls  loses  the 
trail  for  mebby  it's  fifteen  minutes.  We're  smell- 
in*  along  a  canyon  to  find  it  ag'in,  when  from  over 
a  p'int  of  rocks  we  hears  a  bronco  nicker.  He 


Enright's  Pard,  Jim  Willis*  55 

gets  the  scent  of  an  acquaintance  which  Moore's 
ridin'  on,  an'  says  *  How ! '  pony-fashion. 

"  Thar's  no  need  goin'  into  wearyin'  details. 
Followin'  the  nicker  we  comes  surgin'  in  on  our 
prey,  an*  it's  over  in  a  minute.  Thar's  two  Mexi- 
cans,— our  criminal  trackin'  up  with  a  pard  that 
mornin.'  But  of  course  we-alls  knows  he's  thai- 
long  hours  back  by  the  tracks,  so  it  ain't  no 
s'prise. 

"  This  yere  second  Mexican  is  downed  on  the 
run-in.  He  shows  a  heap  of  interest  in  our 
comin',  an'  takes  to  shootin'  us  up  mighty  vivid 
with  a  Winchester  at  the  time  ;  an'  so  Enright, 
who's  close  in,  jumps  some  lead  into  him  an' 
stretches  him.  He  don't  manage  to  do  no  harm, 
nohow,  more'n  he  creases  my  hoss  a  little. 
However,  as  this  yere  hoss  is  amazin'  low-sperited, 
an'  as  bein'  burnt  that  a-way  with  a  bullet  sorter 
livens  him  up  a  heap,  I  don't  complain  none. 
Still  Enright's  all-wise  enough  to  copper  the 
Greaser,  for  thar  ain't  no  sayin'  what  luck  the 
felon  has  with  that  little  old  gun  of  his  if  he 
keeps  on  shootin'.  Which,  as  I  observes,  En- 
right  downs  him,  an'  his  powder-burnin'  an'  hoss- 
rustlin'  stops  immediate. 

"  As  for  the  other  Mexican,  which  he's  the 
party  who  jumps  our  ponies  in  the  first  place,  he 
throws  up  his  hands  an'  allows  he  cashes  in  his 
chips  for  whatever  the  bank  says. 

"  We-alls  ropes  out    our  captive  ;   sorter   hog- 


56  Wolfville. 

ties  him  hand  an'  foot,  wrist  an'  fetlock,  an'  then 
goes  into  camp  all  comfortable,  where  we  runs 
up  on  our  game. 

"  Jack  Moore  drops  the  loop  of  his  lariat  over 
the  off  moccasin  of  the  deceased  Mexican,  an' 
canters  his  pony  down  the  draw  with  him,  so's 
we  ain't  offended  none  by  the  vision  of  him 
spraddled  out  that  a-way  dead.  This  yere's 
thoughtful  of  Jack,  an'  shows  he's  nacherally 
refined  an'  objects  to  remainders  lyin'  'round 
loose. 

" '  No,  it  ain't  so  much  I'm  refined,'  says  Jack, 
when  I  compliments  him  that  he  exhibits  his 
bringin'  up,  an'  him  bein'  too  modest  that  a-way 
to  accept ;  '  it  ain't  that  I'm  refined  none — which 
my  nacher  is  shore  coarse — I  jest  sorter  protests 
in  my  bosom  ag'in  havin'  a  corpse  idlin'  'round 
that  a-way  where  I'm  camped.  Tharfore  I  takes 
my  rope  an'  snatches  deceased  off  where  he  ain't 
noticeable  on  the  scenery.' 

"Jack  does  it  that  gentle  an'  considerate,  too, 
that  when  we  passes  the  Mexican  next  day  on 
our  way  in,  except  he's  some  raveled  an'  frayed 
coastin'  along  where  it's  rocky,  an*  which  can't 
be  he'ped  none,  he's  as  excellent  a  corpse  as 
when  he  comes  off  the  shelf,  warm  as  the  rifle 
Enright  throws  him  with. 

" '  Whatever  be  we  goin'  to  do  with  this  yere 
hoss-thief  prisoner  of  ours?  '  says  Jack  Moore  to 
Enright  the  next  day,  when  we're  saddlin*  up  an* 


Enright's  Pard,  Jim  Willis.  5  7 

organizin'  to  pull  our  freight.  '  He's  shore  due  to 
bother  us  a  lot.  We're  plumb  sixty  miles  from 
Tutt  an'  the  boys,  an'  ridin'  herd  on  this  yere 
saddle-colored  gent,  a-keepin'  of  him  from  lopin' 
off,  is  mighty  likely  to  be  a  heap  exhaustin'.  I 
knows  men/  Jack  remarks  at  the  close,  lookin' 
wistful  at  Enright,  'as  would  beef  him  right  yere 
an'  leave  him  as  a  companion  piece  to  that  com- 
padre  of  his  you  downs.' 

"  *  Nachers  as  would  execute  a  pris'ner  in  cold 
blood,'  says  Enright,  '  is  roode  an'  oncivilized. 
Which  I  don't  mean  they  is  low  neither  ;  but  it's 
onconsiderate  that  a-way  to  go  an'  ca'mly  kill  a 
pris'ner,  an'  no  co't  nor  committee  authorizin' 
the  same.  I  never  knows  of  it  bein'  done  but 
once.  It's  Mexicans  who  does  it  then  ;  which  is 
why  they  ain't  none  pop'lar  with  me  since.' 

"  '  It's  shore  what  you  calls  a  mighty  indurated 
play,'  says  Jack,  shakin'  his  head,  '  to  go  shootin' 
some  he'pless  gent  you've  took ;  but,  as  I  states, 
it's  a  cinch  it'll  be  a  heap  fatiguin'  keepin'  cases 
on  this  yere  Mexican  till  we  meets  up  with  a 
quorum  of  the  committee.  Still  it's  our  dooty, 
an'  of  course  we  don't  double-deal,  nor  put  back 
kyards  on  what's  our  plain  dooty.' 

"  *  What  you-all  states,'  says  Enright,  '  is  to 
your  credit,  but  I'll  tell  you.  Thar  ain't  no  harm 
mountin'  this  marauder  on  a  slow  pony  that 
a-way;  an'  bein'  humane  s'fficient  to  leave  his 
hands  an*  feet  ontied.  Of  course  if  he  takes  ad- 


58  Wolfville. 

vantage  of  our  leniency  an'  goes  stampedin'  off 
to  make  his  escape  some'ers  along  the  trail,  I 
reckons  you'll  shorely  have  to  shoot.  Thar's  no 
pass-out  then  but  down  him,  an'  we  sadly  treads 
tharin.  An'/  goes  on  Enright,  some  thoughtful, 
'  if  this  yere  Mexican,  after  we-alls  is  that  patient 
an'  liberal  with  him,  abuses  our  confidences  an 
escapes,  we  leaves  it  a  lone-hand  play  to  you. 
My  eyes  is  gettin'  some  old  an'  off,  any  way  ; 
an'  besides,  if  we  three  takes  to  bangin'  away 
simooltaneous,  in  the  ardor  of  competition  some 
of  us  might  shoot  the  pony.  So  if  this  yere  cap- 
tive runs — which  he  looks  tame,  an'  I  don't  ex- 
pect none  he  will — we  leaves  the  detainin'  of 
him,  Jack,  to  you  entire.' 

u  In  spite  of  Enright's  faith  it  shore  turns  out 
this  Mexican  is  ornery  enough,  where  the  trail 
skirts  the  river,  to  wheel  sudden  an'  go  plungin' 
across.  But  Jack  gets  him  in  midstream.  As 
he  goes  over  the  bronco's  shoulder,  hat  first,  he 
swings  on  the  bridle  long  enough  with  his  dyin' 
hand  to  turn  the  pony  so  it  comes  out  ag'in  on 
our  side. 

"  *  Which  I'm  glad  he  lives  s'fficient  to  head 
that  hoss  our  way,'  says  Jack.  '  It  saves  splash- 
in'  across  after  him  an'  wettin'  yourlegginsa  lot.' 

"  It's  that  night  in  camp  when  Jack  brings  up 
what  Enright  says  about  the  time  the  Mexicans 
downs  a  pris'ner,  an'  tharby  fixes  his  views  of 
'em. 


Emighfs  Pard,  Jim  Willis*  59 

"  *  It's  a  long  trail  back,'  says  Enright, '  an'  I 
don't  like  this  yarn  enough  to  find  myse'f  relatin' 
it  to  any  excessive  degrees.  It  draws  the  cinch 
some  tight  an'  painful,  an'  I  don't  teach  my  mind 
to  dwell  on  it  no  more'n  is  necessary. 

" '  This  is  all  when  I'm  a  boy  ;  mebby  I  ain't 
twenty  years  yet.  It's  durin'  the  Mexican  war. 
I  gets  a  stack  of  white  chips  an'  stands  in  on  the 
deal  in  a  boyish  way.  All  I  saveys  of  the  war  is 
it's  ag'in  the  Mexicans,  which,  while  I  ain't  got 
no  feud  with  'em  personal  at  the  time,  makes  it 
plenty  satisfactory  to  me. 

"  '  It's  down  off  two  days  to  the  west  of  Chi- 
huahua, an'  seven  of  us  is  projectin'  'round  seein* 
whatever  can  we  tie  down  an'  brand,  when  some 
Mexicans  gets  us  out  on  a  limb.  It  ain't  a  squar' 
deal ;  still  I  reckons  it's  squar'  enough,  too  ;  only 
bein'  what  you-alls  calls  strategic,  it's  offensive 
an'  sneakin'  as  a  play. 

" '  This  yere  lieutenant  who's  leadin'  us  'round 
permiscus,  looks  like  he's  some  romantic  about  a 
young  Mexican  female,  who's  called  the  Princess 
of  Casa  Grande.  Which  the  repoote  of  this  yere 
Princess  woman  is  bad,  an'  I  strikes  a  story  sev- 
eral times  of  how  she's  that  incensed  ag'in  Amer- 
icans she  once  saws  off  a  thimbleful  of  loco  on  a 
captain  in  some  whiskey  he's  allowin'  to  drink, 
an'  he  goes  plumb  crazy  an'  dies. 

"  *  But  loco  or  no  loco,  this  yere  Princess  per- 
son is  shore  that  good  lookin'  a  pinto  pony  don't 


60  Wolfville. 

compare  tharwith ;  an'  when  she  gets  her  black 
eyes  on  our  lieutenant,  that  settles  it ;  we  rounds 
up  at  her  hacienda  an'  goes  into  camp. 

"  '  Besides  the  lieutenant  thar's  six  of  us.  One 
of  'em's  a  shorthorn  who  matches  me  for  age; 
which  his  name's  Willis — Jim  Willis. 

"'  Now  I  ain't  out  to  make  no  descriptions  of 
the  friendship  which  goes  on  between  this  yere 
Willis  an'  me.  I  sees  a  show  one  time  when  I'm 
pesterin'  'round  back  in  St.  Looey — an'  I'm 
yere  to  remark  I  don't  go  that  far  east  no  more — 
which  takes  on  about  a  couple  of  sports  who's 
named  Damon  an  Pythias.  Them  two  people's 
all  right,  an'  game.  An'  they  shore  deems  high 
of  one  another.  But  at  the  time  I  sees  this  yere 
Damon  an'  Pythias,  I  says  to  myse'f,  an'  ever 
since  I  makes  onhesitatin'  assertion  tharof,  that 
the  brotherly  views  them  two  gents  entertains 
ain't  a  marker  to  Jim  Willis  an'  me. 

"  'This  yere  Jim  I  knows  since  we're  yearlin's. 
We-alls  jumps  outen  the  corral  together  back 
in  Tennessee,  an'  goes  off  into  this  Mexican 
war  like  twins.  An'  bein'  two  boys  that  a-way 
among  a  band  of  men,  I  allows  thar  ain't  noth- 
in'  before,  nor  then,  nor  after,  which  I  loves  like 
Jim. 

"'As  I  observes,  Jim  an'  me's  in  the  outfit 
when  this  yere  lieutenant  comes  trackin*  'round 
that  Princess  of  Casa  Grande  ;  which  her  love 
for  him  is  a  bluff  an'  a  deadfall ;  an'  the  same 


Enright's  Pard,  Jim  Willis*  6 1 

gets  all  of  us  before  we're  through.  An'  it  gets 
my  Jim  Willis  speshul. 

" '  Mebby  it's  the  third  mornin'  after  we-alls 
meanders  into  this  nest  of  Mexicans,  an'  the 
lieutenant  gets  lined  out  for  that  Princess  of  Casa 
Grande.  We  ain't  been  turnin'  out  early  nohow, 
thar  bein'  nothin'  to  turn  out  about  ;  but  this 
third  mornin'  somebody  arouses  us  a  heap  vigor- 
ous, like  they  aims  to  transact  some  business 
with  us.  Which  they  shorely  does ;  it's  an  outfit 
of  Greaser  guerillas,  an'  we-alls  ain't  nothin'  more 
or  less  than  captives. 

"  *  The  ornery  an'  ongrateful  part  is  that  the 
Princess  sends  one  of  her  own  peonies  scoutin' 
'round  in  the  hills  to  bring  in  this  band  of  cattle- 
eaters  onto  us. 

"  *  When  the  lieutenant  hears  of  the  perfidy  of 
the  Princess  female,  he's  that  mortified  he  gets  a 
pistol  the  first  jump  he  makes  an'  blows  off  the 
top  of  his  head  ;  which  if  he  only  blows  off  the 
top  of  hers  it  would  have  gone  a  heap  further 
with  the  rest  of  us.  If  he'd  consulted  any  of  us, 
it  would  have  shorely  been  advised.  But  he 
makes  an  impulsive  play  that  a-way  ;  an*  is  that 
sore  an'  chagrined  he  jest  grabs  a  gun  in  a  fren- 
zied way  an'  cashes  his  chips  abrupt. 

"  '  No,  as  I  states,'  says  Enright,  musin'  to 
himse'f,  *  if  the  lieutenant  had  only  downed  that 
Princess  who  plays  us  in  as  pris'ners  so  smooth 
an*  easy,  it  would  have  been  regarded.  He  could 


62  Wolfville* 

have  gone  caperin'  over  the  brink  after  her  with 
the  bridle  off  the  next  second,  an'  we-alls  would 
still  talk  well  of  him. 

" '  As  it  is,  however,  this  riotous  female  don't 
last  two  months.  Which  it's  also  a  fact  that 
takin'  us  that  time  must  have  been  a  heap  on- 
lucky  for  them  Greasers.  Thar's  nine  of  'em,  an' 
every  last  man  dies  in  the  next  five  months;  an' 
never  a  one,  nor  yet  the  Princess,  knows  what 
they're  ag'inst  when  they  quits ;  or  what  breeze 
blows  their  light  out.  /  knows,  because  me  an' 
a  party  whose  name  is  Tate — Bill  Tate — never 
leaves  them  hills  till  the  last  of  that  outfit's  got 
his  heap  of  rocks  piled  up,  with  its  little  pine 
cross  stickin'  outen  the  peak  tharof,  showin'  he's 
done  jumped  this  earthly  game  for  good. 

"  '  This  Bill  Tate  an'  me  breaks  camp  on  them 
Greasers  together  while  they're  tankin'  up  on 
mescal,  mebby  it's  two  days  later ;  an'  they 
never  gets  their  lariats  on  us  no  more. 

"  *  "  You  ain't  got  no  dates,  nor  speshul  en- 
gagements with  nobody  in  the  States,  have 
you  ?  "  says  Tate  to  me  when  we're'  safe  outen 
them  Mexican's  hands. 

"  *  "  No,"  says  I,  "  whatever  makes  you  ask?  " 

"  '  "  Oh,  nothin',"  says  Tate  lookin'  at  the  sky 
sorter  black  ..n'  ugly,  "  only  since  you-all  has  the 
leesure,  what  for  a  play  would  it  be  to  make  a 
long  camp  back  in  these  hills  by  some  water-hole 
some'ers,  an*  stand  pat  ontil  we  downs  these 


Enrighf s  Pard,  Jim  Willis.  63 

yere  Greasers — squaws  an'  all — who's  had  us 
treed  ?  It  oughter  be  did  ;  an'  if  we-alls  don't 
do  it  none,  it's  a  heap  likely  it's  goin'  to  be  neg- 
lected complete.  It's  easy  as  a  play  ;  every  hoss- 
thief  of  'em  lives  right  in  these  yere  valleys,  for 
I  hears  'em  talk.  All  we  has  to  do  is  sa'nter 
back  in  the  hills,  make  a  camp  ;  an'  by  bein' 
slow  an'  shore,  an'  takin'  time  an'  pains,  we  bush- 
whacks an'  kills  the  last  one." 

"  *  The  way  I  feels  about  Willis  makes  the 
prospect  mighty  allurin,'  an'  tharupon  Tate  an' 
me  opens  a  game  with  them  Mexicans  it  takes 
five  months  to  deal. 

"  *  But  it's  plumb  dealt  out,  an'  we  win.  When 
Tate  crosses  the  Rio  Grande  with  the  army  goin' 
back,  he  shorely  has  the  skelp  of  every  Mexican 
incloosive  of  said  Princess. 

"'But  I  wanders  from  Willis.  Where  was  I 
at  when  I  bogs  down  ?  As  I  says,  this  lieutenant 
nabs  a  pistol  an'  goes  flutterin'  from  his  limb. 
But  this  don't  do  them  Greasers.  They  puts  up 
a  claim  that  some  Americans  tracks  up  on  one 
of  their  outfit  an'  kills  him  off,  they  says,  five 
days  before.  They  allows  that,  breakin'  even  on 
the  deal,  one  of  us  is  due  to  die.  Tate  offers  to 
let  'em  count  the  lieutenant,  but  they  shakes 
their  heads  till  the  little  bells  on  their  sombreros 
tinkles,  an'  declines  the  lieutenant  emphatic. 

"  *  They  p'ints  out  this  yere  lieutenant  dies  in 
his  own  game,  on  his  own  deal.  It's  no  racket 


64  Wolfville. 

of  theirs,  an'  it  don't  go  to  match  the  man 
they're  shy. 

<k  *  One  of  us  six  who's  left  has  to  die  to  count 
even  for  this  Greaser  who's  been  called  in  them 
five  days  ago.  Tate  can't  move  'em  ;  all  he  says 
is  no  use  ;  so  he  quits,  an'  as  he's  been  talkin' 
Spanish — which  the  same  is  too  muddy  a  lan- 
guage for  the  rest  of  us — Tate  turns  in  an'  tells 
us  how  the  thing  sizes  up. 

" '  "  One  of  us  is  shorely  elected  to  trail  out 
after  the  lieutenant,"  says  Tate.  "  The  rest  they 
holds  as  pris'ners.  Either  way  it's  a  hard,  deep 
cro'ssin',  an'  one's  about  as  rough  a  toss  as  the 
other." 

"  '  This  last  Tate  stacks  in  to  mebby  win  out  a 
little  comfort  for  the  one  the  Mexicans  cuts  outen 
our  bunch  to  kill. 

"  *  After  a  brief  pow-wow  the  Greaser  who's 
actin'  range-boss  for  the  outfit  puts  six  beans  in 
a  buckskin  bag.  Five  is  white  an'  one's  black. 
Them  Greasers  is  on  the  gamble  bigger'n  wolves, 
an'  they  crowds  up  plenty  gleeful  to  see  us  take 
a  gambler's  chance  for  our  lives.  The  one  of  us 
who  draws  a  black  bean  is  to  p'int  out  after  the 
lieutenant. 

"  *  Sayin'  somethin'  in  Spanish  which  most 
likely  means  "  Age  before  beauty,"  the  Mexicans 
makes  Willis  an'  me  stand  back  while  the  four 
others  searches  one  after  the  other  into  the  bag 
for  his  bean. 


Enr ight's  Pardt  Jim  Willis*  65 

"  *  Tate  goes  first  an'  wins  a  white  bean. 

"  *  Then  a  shiftless,  no-account  party  whom 
we-alls  calls  "  Chicken  Bill  "  reaches  in.  I  shorely 
hopes,  seein'  it's  bound  to  be  somebody,  that 
this  Chicken  Bill  acquires  the  black  bean.  But 
luck's  ag'in  us  ;  Chicken  Bill  backs  off  with  a 
white  bean. 

" '  When  the  third  gent  turns  out  a  white  bean 
the  shadow  begins  to  fall  across  Jim  Willis  an' 
me.  I  looks  at  Jim  ;  an'  I  gives  it  to  you 
straight  when  I  says  that  I  ain't  at  that  time 
thinkin'  of  myse'f  so  much  as  about  Jim.  To 
see  this  yere  deal,  black  as  midnight,  closin'  in 
on  Jim,  is  what's  hurtin' ;  it  don't  somehow 
occur  to  me  I'm  likewise  up  ag'in  the  iron  my- 
se'f. 

" '  "  Looks  like  this  yere  amiable  deevice  is 
out  to  run  its  brand  onto  one  of  us,"  says  Jim  to 
me ;  an'  I  looks  at  him. 

"'An*  then,  as  the  fourth  finds  a  white  bean 
in  the  bag,  an'  draws  a  deep  sigh  an'  stands  back, 
Jim  says:  "  Well,  Sam,  it's  up  to  us."  Then 
Jim  looks  at  me  keen  an'  steady  a  whole  lot,  an' 
the  Mexicans,  bein'  rather  pleased  with  the  sit- 
uation, ain't  goadin'  of  us  to  hurry  up  none. 

"  '  When  it's  to  Jim  an'  me  they  selects  me 
out  as  the  one  to  pull  for  the  next  bean.  Jim's 
still  lookin'  at  me  hard,  an'  I  sees  the  water  in 
his  eye.' 

"  *  "  Let  me  have  your  draw,  Sam,"  he  says. 


66  Wolfville* 

" ' "  Shore,"  I  replies,  standin'  a  step  off  from 
the  bag.  "  It's  yours  too  quick." 

"  *  But  the  Mexicans  don't  see  it  that  a-way. 
It's  my  turn  an'  my  draw,  an'  Jim  has  to  take 
what's  left.  So  the  Mexicans  tells  Tate  to  send 
me  after  my  bean  ag'in. 

"  *  "  Hold  on  a  second,  Sam,"  says  Jim,  an'  by 
this  time  he's  steady  as  a  church.  "  Sam,"  he 
goes  on,  "  thar's  no  use  you-all  gettin'  the  short 
end  of  this.  Thar's  reasons  for  you  livin',  which 
my  case  is  void  tharof.  Now  let  me  ask  you  : 
be  you  up  on  beans  ?  Can  you  tell  a  black  from 
a  white  bean  by  the  feel  ?  " 

"  '  "  No,"  I  says,  "  beans  is  all  a  heap  the  same 
to  me." 

"'"That's  what  I  allows,"  goes  on  this  Jim. 
"  Now  yere's  where  my  sooperior  knowledge  gets 
in.  If  these  Mexicans  had  let  me  draw  for  you 
I'd  fixed  it,  but  it  looks  like  they  has  scrooples. 
But  listen,  an'  you  beats  the  deal  as  it  is.  Thar's 
a  difference  in  beans  same  as  in  ponies.  Black 
beans  is  rough  like  a  cactus  compared  to  white 
beans,  which  said  last  vegetable  is  -  shorely  as 
smooth  as  glass.  Now  yere's  what  you-all  does; 
jest  grope  an*  scout  'round  in  that  bag  ontil  you 
picks  out  the  smooth  bean.  That's  your  bean  ; 
that's  the  white  bean.  Cinch  the  smooth  bean 
an'  the  black  one  comes  to  me." 

"'When  Jim  says  all  this  it  seems  like  I'm  in 
a  daze  an'  sorter  woozy.  I  never  doubts  him  for 


Enright's  Pard,  Jim  Willis*  67 

a  moment.  Of  course  I  don't  take  no  advantage 
of  what  he  says.  I  recalls  the  advice  my  old 
mother  gives  me ;  it's  long  enough  ago  now. 
The  old  lady  says  :  "  Samyool,  never  let  me  hear 
of  you  weakenin'.  Be  a  man,  or  a  mouse,  or  a 
long-tail  rat."  So  when  Jim  lays  it  off  about 
them  two  beans  bein'  smooth  an'  rough  that 
a-way,  an'  the  white  bein'  the  smooth  bean,  I 
nacherally  searches  out  the  rough  bean,  allowin' 
she'll  shore  be  black ;  which  shows  my  intellects 
can't  cope  with  Jim's  none. 

"  '  The  bean  I  brings  to  the  surface  is  white. 
I'm  pale  as  a  ghost.  My  heart  wilts  like  water 
inside  of  me,  an'  I  feels  white  as  the  bean  where 
it  lays  in  my  hand.  Of  course  I'm  some  young 
them  days,  an'  it  don't  need  so  much  to  stagger  me. 

"  '  I  recollects  like  it  was  in  a  vision  hearin'  Jim 
laugh.  "  Sam,"  he  says,  "  I  reads  you  like  so 
much  sunshine.  An'  I  shorely  fools  you  up  a  lot. 
Don't  you  reckon  I  allows  you'll  double  on  the 
trail,  p'intin'  south  if  I  says  *  north  '  at  a  show  like 
this?  The  white  bean  is  allers  a  rough,  sandy 
bean ;  allers  was  an'  allers  will  be  ;  an'  never  let 
no  one  fool  you  that  a-way  ag'in.  An'  now,  Sam, 
adios" 

"  '  I'm  standin'  lookin'  at  the  white  bean.  I 
feels  Jim  grip  my  other  hand  as  he  says  "  Adios" 
an'  the  next  is  the  "  bang !  "  of  the  Mexicans's 
guns.  Jim's  dead  then  ;  he's  out  in  a  second ; 
never  bats  an  eye  nor  wags  a  y'ear. 


68  Wolfville. 

"  '  Which  now,'  says  Enright  at  the  end,  as  he 
yanks  his  saddle  'round  so  he  makes  a  place  for 
his  head,  *  which  now  that  you-alls  is  fully  in- 
formed why  I  appears  averse  to  Greasers,  I 
reckons  I'll  slumber  some.  I  never  does  see  one, 
I  don't  think  of  that  boy,  Jim  Willis ;  an'  I  never 
thinks  of  Jim  but  I  wants  to  murder  a  Mexican.' 

"  Enright  don't  say  no  more ;  sorter  rolls  up 
in  his  blankets,  drops  his  head  on  his  saddle,  an' 
lays  a  long  time  quiet,  like  he's  asleep.  Jack 
Moore  an'  me  ain't  sayin'  nothin' ;  merely  settin* 
thar  peerin'  into  the  fire  an'  listenin'  to  the  coy- 
otes. At  last  Enright  lifts  his  head  off  the  saddle. 

" '  Mebby  it's  twenty  years  ago  when  a  party 
over  on  the  Rio  Grande  allows  as  how  Jim's 
aimin*  to  cold-deck  me  when  he  enfolds  about 
the  habits  of  them  beans.  It  takes  seven  months, 
a  iron  constitootion,  an'  three  medicine-sharps — 
an'  each  as  good  as  Doc  Peets, — before  that  Rio 
Grande  party  is  regarded  as  outen  danger.'  " 


CHAPTER  VL 
Tucson  Jennie's  Heart* 

"  '  WHYEVER  ain't  I  married  ? '  says  you."  The 
Old  Cattleman  repeated  the  question  after  me  as 
he  settled  himself  for  one  of  our  many  "  pow- 
wows," as  he  described  them.  "  Looks  like  you've 
dealt  me  that  conundrum  before.  Why  ain't  I 
wedded  ?  The  answer  to  that,  son,  is  a  long 
shot  an'  a  limb  in  the  way. 

"  Now  I  reckons  the  reason  why  I'm  allers 
wifeless  a  whole  lot  is  mainly  due  to  the  wide 
pop'larity  of  them  females  I  takes  after.  Some 
other  gent  sorter  gets  her  first  each  time,  an' 
nacherally  that  bars  me.  Bill  Jenks's  wife  on 
that  occasion  is  a  spec'men  case.  That's  one  of 
the  disapp'intments  I  onfolds  to  you.  Now 
thar's  a  maiden  I  not  only  wants,  but  needs ;  jest 
the  same,  Bill  gets  her.  An'  it's  allers  sim'lar;  I 
never  yet  holds  better  than  ace-high  when  the 
stake's  a  lady. 

"  It's  troo,"  he  continued,  reflectively  puffing 
his  pipe.  "  I  was  disp'sitioned  for  a  wife  that 
a-way  when  I'm  a  colt.  But  that's  a  long  time 
ago  ;  I  ain't  in  line  for  no  sech  gymnastics  no 
more ;  my  years  is  'way  ag'in  it. 


70  Wolfville. 

"  You've  got  to  ketch  folks  young  to  marry 
'em.  After  they  gets  to  be  thirty  years  they 
goes  slowly  to  the  altar.  If  you  aims  to  marry  a 
gent  after  he's  thirty  you  has  to  blindfold  him 
an'  back  him  in.  Females,  of  course,  ain't  so  ob- 
durate. No ;  I  s'pose  this  yere  bein'  married  is 
a  heap  habit,  same  as  tobacco  an'  jig-juice.  If  a 
gent  takes  a  hand  early,  it's  a  good  game,  I 
makes  no  sort  of  doubt.  But  let  him  get  to 
millin'  'round  in  the  thirties  or  later,  an'  him  not 
begun  none  as  yet;  you  bet  he  don't  marry 
nothin'. 

"  Bar  an  onexplainable  difference  with  the 
girl's  old  man,"  he  went  on  with  an  air  of 
thought,  "  I  s'pose  I'd  be  all  married  right  now. 
I  was  twenty,  them  times.  It's  'way  back  in 
Tennessee.  Her  folks  lives  about  'leven  miles 
from  me  out  on  the  Pine  Knot  Pike,  an'  once  in 
two  weeks  I  saddles  up  an'  sorter  sidles  over. 
Thar's  jest  her  old  pap  an'  her  mother  an'  her  in 
the  fam'ly,  an'  it's  that  far  I  allers  made  to  stay 
all  night.  Thar's  only  two  beds,  an'  so  I'm  put 
to  camp  along  of  the  old  man  the  times  I  stays. 

"  Them  days  I'm  'way  bashful  an'  behind  on 
all  social  plays,  an'  am  plenty  awe-struck  about 
the  old  folks.  I  never  feels  happy  a  minute 
where  they  be.  The  old  lady  does  her  best  to 
make  me  easy  an'  free,  too.  Comes  out  when  I 
rides  up,  an'  lets  down  the  bars  for  my  hoss,  an* 
asks  me  to  rest  my  hat  the  second  I'm  in  the  door. 


Tucson  Jennie's  Heart*  7 1 

"  Which  matters  goes  on  good  enough  ontil 
mebby  it's  the  eighth  time  I'm  thar.  I  remem- 
bers the  night  all  perfect.  Me  an'  the  girl  sets 
up  awhile,  an'  then  I  quits  her  an'  turns  in.  I 
gets  to  sleep  a-layin'  along  the  aige  of  the  bed, 
aimin'  to  keep  'way  from  the  old  man,  who's 
snorin'  an'  thrashin'  'round  an'  takin'  on  over  in 
the  middle. 

"  I  don't  recall  much  of  nothin'  ontil  I  comes 
to,  a-holdin'  to  the  old  man's  y'ear  with  one  hand 
an'  a-hammerin'  of  his  features  with  t'other.  I 
don't  know  yet,  why.  I  s'pose  I'm  locoed  an' 
dreamin',  an  allows  he's  a  b'ar  or  somethin'  in 
my  sleep  that  a-way,  an'  tries  to  kill  him. 

"  Son,  it's  'way  back  a  long  time,  but  I  shud- 
ders yet  when  I  reflects  on  that  old  man's  lan- 
guage. I  jumps  up  when  I  realizes  things,  grabs 
my  raiment,  an',  gettin'  my  hoss  outen  the  cor- 
ral, goes  p'intin'  down  the  pike  more'n  a  mile 
'fore  I  even  stops  to  dress.  The  last  I  sees  of  the 
old  man  he's  buckin'  an'  pitchin'  an'  tossin',  an' 
the  females  a-holdin'  of  him,  an'  he  reachin'  to 
get  a  Hawkins's  rifle  as  hangs  over  the  door.  I 
never  goes  back  no  more,  'cause  he's  mighty 
vindictive  about  it.  He  tries  to  make  it  a  grand- 
jury  matter  next  co't-time. 

"  Speakin'  of  nuptials,  however,  you  can't  tell 
much  about  women.  Thar's  a  girl  who  shorely 
s'prises  us  once  in  a  way  out  in  Wolfville. 
Missis  Rucker,  who  runs  the  O.  K.  Restauraw, 


72  Wolfville* 

gets  this  female  from  Tucson  to  fry  flap-jacks  an' 
salt  boss,  an'  he'p  her  deal  her  little  gastronomic 
game.  This  yere  girl's  name  is  Jennie — Tucson 
Jennie.  She  looks  like  she's  a  nice,  good  girl, 
too ;  one  of  them  which  it's  easy  to  love,  an'  in 
less'n  two  weeks  thar's  half  the  camp  gets  smitten. 

"  It  affects  business,  it's  that  bad.  Cherokee 
Hall  tells  me  thar  ain't  half  the  money  gets 
changed  in  at  faro  as  usual,  an'  the  New  York 
Store  reports  gents  goin'  broke  ag'in  biled  shirts, 
an'  sim'lar  deadfalls  daily.  Of  course  this  yere 
first  frenzy  subsides  a  whole  lot  after  a  month. 

"All  this  time  Jennie  ain't  sayin'  a  word.  She 
jest  shoves  them  foolish  yooths  their  enchilades 
an'  chile  con  carne,  an'  ignores  all  winks  an*  looks 
complete. 

"Thar's  a  party  named  Jim  Baxter  in  camp, 
an'  he  sets  in  to  win  Jennie  hard.  Jim  tries  to 
crowd  the  game  an'  get  action.  It  looks  like 
he's  due  to  make  the  trip  too.  Missis  Rucker  is 
backin'  his  play,  an'  Jennie  herse'f  sorter  lets 
him  set  'round  in  the  kitchen  an'  watch  her 
work;  which  this  yere  is  license  an'  riot  itse'f 
compared  with  how  she  treats  others.  Occa- 
sionally some  of  us  sorter  tries  to  stack  up  for 
Jim  an*  figger  out  where  he  stands  with  the 
game. 

"'How's  it  goin',  Baxter?'  Enright  asks  one 
day. 

"  '  It's  too  many  for  me,'  says  Jim.     *  Some- 


Tucson  Jennie's  Heart*  73 

times  I  thinks  I  corrals  her,  an'  then  ag'in  it 
looks  like  I  ain't  in  it.  Jest  now  I'm  feelin'  some 
dejected.' 

"  '  Somethin'  oughter  be  schemed  to  settle  this 
yere,'  says  Enright.  '  It  keeps  the  camp  in  a 
fever,  an'  mebby  gets  serious  an'  spreads.' 

"'If  somebody  would  only  prance  in,' says 
Doc  Peets,  '  an'  shoot  Jim  up  some,  you'd  have 
her  easy.  Females  is  like  a  rabbit  in  a  bush-pile  ; 
you  has  to  shake  things  up  a  lot  to  make  'em 
come  out.  Now,  if  Jim  is  dyin'  an'  she  cares  for 
him,  she's  shorely  goin'  to  show  her  hand.' 

"  I  wants  to  pause  right  yere  to  observe  that 
Doc  Peets  is  the  best-eddicated  sharp  I  ever  en- 
counters in  my  life.  An'  what  he  don't  know 
about  squaws  is  valueless  as  information.  But 
to  go  on  with  the  deal. 

"'That's  right,'  says  Cherokee  Hall,  '  but  of 
course  it  ain't  goin'  to  do  to  shoot  Jim  up 
none.' 

"'I  don't  know,'  says  Jim; 'I  stands  quite  a 
racket  if  I'm  shore  it  fetches  her.' 

"  '  What  for  a  game,'  says  Cherokee,  '  would  it 
be  to  play  like  Jim's  shot  ?  Wouldn't  that  make 
her  come  a-runnin'  same  as  if  it's  shore  'nough?  ' 

"  '  I  don't  see  why  not,'  says  Enright. 

"  Well,  the  idee  gains  ground  like  an  antelope, 
an'  at  last  gets  to  be  quite  a  conspir'cy.  It's 
settled  we  plays  it,  with  Dave  Tutt  to  do  the 
shootin'. 


74  Wolfville. 

"  *  An'  we  makes  the  game  complete,'  says 
Jack  Moore,  *  by  grabbin'  Dave  immediate  an' 
bringin'  of  him  before  the  committee,  which  con- 
venes all  reg'lar  an'  deecorous  in  the  Red  Light 
for  said  purpose.  We-alls  must  line  out  like 
we're  goin'  to  hang  Dave  for  the  killin'  ;  other- 
wise it  don't  look  nacheral  nohow,  an'  the  lady 
detects  it's  a  bluff.' 

"  We  gets  things  all  ready,  an'  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  when  Jennie  is  draggin'  her 
lariat  'round  loose  an'  nothin'  much  to  do— 
'cause  we  ain't  aimin'  to  disturb  her  none  in  her 
dooties  touchin'  them  flapjacks  an'  salt  hoss — we- 
alls  assembles  over  in  the  New  York  Store.  As 
a  preliminary  step  we  lays  Jim  on  some  boxes, 
with  a  wagon-cover  over  him,  like  he's  deceased. 

"  *  Cl'ar  things  out  of  the  way  along  by  Jim's 
head,'  says  Jack  Moore,  who  is  takin*  a  big  in- 
terest. *  We  wants  to  fix  things  so  Jen  can 
swarm  in  at  him  easy.  You  hear  me  !  she's  goin' 
to  come  stampedin'  in  yere  like  wild  cattle  when 
she  gets  the  news.' 

"  When  everythin's  ready,Tutt  an*  Jack,  who 
concloods  it's  well  to  have  a  good  deal  of 
shootin',  bangs  away  with  their  guns  about  four 
times  apiece. 

"  '  Jest  shootin'  once  or  twice/  says  Jack, 
*  might  arouse  her  s'picions.  It  would  be  a  heap 
too  brief  for  the  real  thing.' 

"  The   minute    the   shootin'  is  ceased   we-alls 


Tucson  Jennie's  Heart*  75 

takes  Tutt  an'  surges  over  to  the  Red  Light  to 
try  him ;  a-pendin'  of  which  Dan  Boggs  sa'nters 
across  to  the  O.  K.  Restauraw  an'  remarks,  all 
casooal  an'  careless  like : 

" '  Dave  Tutt  downs  Jim  Baxter  a  minute 
back ;  good  clean  gun-play  as  ever  I  sees,  too. 
Mighty  big  credit  to  both  boys  this  yere  is. 
No  shootin'  up  the  scenery  an'  the  bystanders ; 
no  sech  slobberin'  work ;  but  everythin'  carries 
straight  to  centers.' 

"  '  Where  is  he  ?  '  says  Jennie,  lookin'  breath- 
less an'  sick. 

"'Jim's  remainder  is  in  the  New  York  Store,' 
says  Dan. 

"  '  Is  he  hurt  ?  '  she  gasps. 

"  *  I  don't  reckon  he  hurts  none  now,'  says 
Dan,  '  'cause  he's  done  cashed  in  his  stack.  Why ! 
girl,  he's  dead ;  eighteen  bullets,  caliber  forty- 
five,  plumb  through  him.' 

"  '  No,  but  Dave  !  Is  Dave  shot  ? '  Tucson 
Jennie  says,  a-wringin'  of  her  small  paws. 

"'Now  don't  you  go  to  feelin'  discouraged 
none,'  says  Dan,  beginnin'  to  feel  sorry  for  her. 
'  We  fixes  the  wretch  so  his  murderin'  sperit 
won't  be  an  hour  behind  Jim's  gettin'  in.  The 
Stranglers  has  him  in  the  Red  Light,  makin' 
plans  to  stretch  him  right  now.' 

"  We-alls  has  consoomed  drinks  all  'round,  an' 
Enright  is  in  the  chair,  an'  we're  busy  settin'  up 
a  big  front  about  hearin'  the  case,  when  Tucson 


76  Wolfville. 

Jennie,  with  a  scream  as  scares  up  surroundin' 
things  to  sech  a  limit  that  five  ponies  hops  out 
of  the  corral  an'  flies,  comes  chargin'  into  the 
Red  Light,  an'  the  next  instant  she  drifts  'round 
Tutt's  neck  like  so  much  snow. 

"  '  What  for  a  game  do  you  call  this,  anyhow  ?  " 
says  Jack  Moore,  who's  a  heap  scand'lized.  *  Is 
this  yere  maiden  playin'  anythin'  on  this  camp?' 

"  *  She's  plumb  locoed  with  grief,'  says  Dan 
Boggs,  who  follers  her  in,  '  an'  she's  done  got  'em 
mixed  in  her  mind.  She  thinks  Dave  is  Baxter.' 

"  *  That's  it,'  says  Cherokee.  *  Her  mind's 
stampeded  with  the  shock.  Me  an'  Jack  takes 
her  over  to  Jim's  corpse,  an'  that's  shore  to  re- 
vive her.'  An'  with  that  Cherokee  an'  Jack  goes 
up  to  lead  her  away. 

"  '  Save  him,  Mister  Enright ;  save  him  ! '  she 
pleads,  still  clingin'  to  Tutt's  neck  like  the  loop 
of  a  lariat.  '  Don't  let  'em  hang  him  !  Save  him 
for  my  sake  !  ' 

"  '  Hold  on,  Jack,'  says  Enright,  who  by  now  is 
lookin'  some  thoughtful.  '  Jest  everybody  stand 
their  hands  yere  till  I  counts  the  pot  an'  notes 
who's  shy.  It  looks  like  we're  cinchin'  the  hull 
onto  the  wrong  bronco.  Let  me  ask  this  female 
a  question.  Young  woman,'  he  says  to  Tucson 
Jennie,  '  be  you  fully  informed  as  to  whose  neck 
you're  hangin'  to  ?  ' 

"  '  It's  Dave's,  ain't  it  ? '  she  says,  lookin'  all 
tearful  in  his  face  to  make  shore. 


Tucson  Jennie's  Heart.  7  7 

"  Enright  an'  the  rest  of  us  don't  say  nothin', 
but  gazes  at  each  other.  Tutt  flushes  up  an' 
shows  pleased  both  at  once.  But  all  the  same 
he  puts  his  arms  'round  her  like  the  dead-game 
gent  he  is. 

" '  What'll  you-alls  have,  gents?"  Enright 
says  at  last,  quiet  an'  thoughtful.  *  The  drinks 
is  on  me,  barkeep.' 

"  '  Excuse  me,'  says  Doc  Peets,  *  but  as  the 
author  of  thisyere  plot,  I  takes  it  the  p'ison  is  on 
me.  Barkeep,  set  out  all  your  bottles.' 

"  '  Gents,'  says  Jack  Moore,  '  I'm  as  peaceful  a 
person  as  ever  jingled  a  spur  or  pulled  a  gun  in 
Wolfville  ;  but  as  I  reflects  on  the  active  part  I 
takes  in  these  yere  ceremonies,  I  won't  be  re- 
sponsible for  results  if  any  citizen  comes  between 
me  an'  payin'  for  the  drinks.  Barkeep,  I'm  doin' 
this  myse'f.' 

"  Well,  it's  hard  enoomeratin'  how  many  drinks 
we  do  have.  Jim  Baxter  throws  away  the  wagon 
cover  an'  comes  over  from  the  New  York  Store 
an'  stands  in  with  us.  It  gets  to  be  a  orgy. 

"  'Of  course  it's  all  right,'  says  Enright,  *  the 
camp  wins  with  Tutt  instead  of  Baxter  ;  that's 
all.  It  'lustrates  one  of  them  beautiful  character- 
istics of  the  gentler  sex,  too.  Yere's  Baxter,  to 
say  nothin'  of  twenty  others,  as  besieges  an'  be- 
leaguers this  yere  female  for  six  weeks,  an*  she 
scorns  'em.  Yere's  Tutt,  who  ain't  makin'  a 
move,  an'  she  grabs  him.  It  is  sech  oncertain- 


78  Wblfvffle. 

ties,  gents,  as   makes  the  love  of  woman   valu- 
able.' 

"  '  You-alls  should  have  asked  me,'  says  Faro 
Nell,  who  comes  in  right  then  an'  rounds  up  close 
to  Cherokee.  *  I  could  tell  you  two  weeks  ago 
Jennie's  in  love  with  Tutt.  Anybody  could  see 
it.  Why !  she's  been  feedin'  of  him  twice  as 
good  grub  as  she  does  anybody  else.' ' 


CHAPTER  VIL 
Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy* 

"  No ;  Dave  an'  his  wife  prospers  along  all 
right.  That  is,  they  prospers  all  but  once  ;  that's 
when  Jennie  gets  jealous." 

The  Old  Cattleman  was  responding  to  my 
question.  I  was  full  of  an  idle  interest  and  dis- 
posed to  go  further  into  the  affairs  of  Tutt  and 
Tucson  Jennie. 

"  Doc  Peets,"  continued  the  old  gentleman, 
"  allers  tells  me  on  the  side  thar's  nothin'  in 
Dave's  conduct  onbecomin'  a  fam'ly  man  that 
a-way,  an'  that  Jen's  simply  barkin'  at  a  knot. 
But,  however  that  is,  Dave  don't  seem  to  gain  no 
comfort  of  it  at  the  time.  I  can  see  myse'f  she 
gets  Dave  plumb  treed  an'  out  on  a  limb  by  them 
accusations  when  she  makes  'em.  He  shorely 
looks  guilty  ;  an'  yet,  while  I  stands  over  the  play 
from  the  first,  I  can't  see  where  Dave  does  wrong. 

"  However,  I  don't  put  myse'f  for'ard  as  no 
good  jedge  in  domestic  affairs.  Bein'  single  my- 
se'f that  a-way,  females  is  ondoubted  what  Doc 
Peets  calls  a  '  theery  '  with  me.  But  nevertheless, 
in  an  onpresoomin',  lowly  way,  I  gives  it  as  my 


8o  Wolfville* 

meager  jedgement,  an*  I  gives  it  cold,  as  how  a 
jealous  woman  is  worse  than  t'rant'lers.  She's 
plumb  locoed  for  one  thing ;  an'  thar's  no  sech 
thing  as  organizin'  to  meet  her  game.  For  my- 
se'f,  I  don't  want  no  transactions  with  'em  ;  none 
whatever. 

"  This  yere  domestic  uprisin'  of  Dave's  wife 
breaks  on  Wolfville  as  onexpected  as  a  fifth  ace 
in  a  poker  deck  ;  it  leaves  the  camp  all  spraddled 
out.  Tucson  Jennie  an'  Dave's  been  wedded 
goin'  on  six  months.  The  camp,  as  I  relates, 
attends  the  nuptials  in  a  body,  an',  followin'  of  the 
festivities,  Tucson  Jennie  an'  Dave  tumbles  into 
housekeepin'  peaceful  as  two  pups  in  a  basket. 

"  Wolfville's  proud  of  'em,  an'every  time  some 
ign'rant  bein'  asks  about  Wolfville  an'  the  so- 
cial features  of  the  camp,  we  allers  mentions  Tutt 
an'  his  wife,  an'  tells  how  they  keeps  house,  sorter 
upholsterin'  our  bluff. 

"  That's  how  the  deal  stands,  when  one  day  up 
jumps  this  Tucson  Jennie,  puts  on  her  sunbunnit, 
an'  goes  stampedin'  down  to  the  O.  K.  House, 
an'  allows  to  Missis  Rucker  that  she's  done  lived 
with  Dave  all  she  aims  to,  an'  has  shore  pulled 
her  picket-pin  for  good.  She  puts  it  up  Dave  is 
a  base,  deceitful  sharp  that  a-way,  an'  informs 
Missis  Rucker,  all  mixed  up  with  tears,  as  how 
she  now  desires  to  go  back  in  the  kitchen  an'  cook, 
same  as  when  Dave  rounds  her  up  for  his  wife. 

"  Yere's  the   whole  story,  an'   while    I    nurses 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy.  8 1 

certain  views  tharon,  I  leaves  it  to  you  entire  to 
say  how  much  Tucson  Jennie  is  jestified.  I  knows 
all  about  it,  for  I'm  obleeged  to  be  in  on  the  deal 
from  soda  to  hock. 

"  It's  mighty  likely  a  month  before  the  time 
Tucson  Jennie  breaks  through  Dave's  lines  this 
a-way.  Dave  an'  me's  due  to  go  over  towards  the 
Tres  Hermanas  about  some  cattle.  Likewise 
thar's  an  English  outfit  allowin'  they'll  go  along 
some,  to  see  where  they've  been  stackin'  in  heavy 
on  some  ranch  lands.  They  was  eager  for  Dave 
an'  me  to  trail  along  with  'em,  an'  sorter  ride 
herd  on'  em,  an'  keep  'em  from  gettin'  mixed  up 
with  the  scenery — which  the  same  is  shorely  com- 
plicated in  the  foot-hills  of  the  Tres  Hermanas — 
an'  losin'  themse'fs  a  heap. 

"  '  Which  you'd  better  do  it,  boys,'  says  En- 
right.  '  S'pose  them  folks  be  some  trouble.  It's 
a  mighty  sight  better  than  havin'  'em  go  p'intin' 
off  alone  that  a-way.  They  would  shore  miss  the 
way  if  they  does  ;  an'  the  first  we-alls  knows,  these 
yere  Britons  would  be  runnin'  cimmaron  in  the 
hills,  scarin'  up  things  a  lot,  an'  a-stampedin'  the 
cattle  plumb  off  the  range.  It's  easier  to  go  along 
careful  with  'em  an'  bring  'em  back.' 

"  It  comes,  then,  that  onemornin'  Dave  an'  me 
an'  these  yere  aliens  lines  out  for  the  hills. 
They've  got  ponies,  an'  wagons,  an'  camp-outfit 
to  that  extent  a  casooal  onlooker  might  think 
they  aims  to  be  away  for  years. 


82  Wolfville. 

"  As  we  p'ints  out  from  the  O.  K.  House,  where 
them  Britons  has  been  wrastlin'  their  chuck  pend- 
in'  the  start,  Tucson  Jennie  is  thar  sayin'  '  good- 
by  '  to  Dave.  I  notes  then  she  ain't  tickled  to 
death  none  about  somethin',  but  don't  deem 
nothin'  speshul  of  it. 

"The  Britons  is  made  up  of  two  gents,  mebby 
as  old  as  Enright — brothers  is  what  they  be — an' 
a  female  who's  the  daughter  of  one  of  'em. 
Which  thar's  nothin'  recent  about  this  yere  lady, 
though  ;  an'  I  reckons  she's  mighty  likely  forty 
years  old.  I  learns  later,  however,  it's  this  female 
which  Tucson  Jennie  resents  when  she  says  adios 
to  Dave. 

*'  It  shore  strikes  me  now,  when  years  is  passed, 
as  some  marv'lous  how  a  han'some,  corn-fed 
female  like  Tucson  Jennie  manages  to  found  a 
fight  with  Dave  over  this  yere  towerist  woman. 
I'm  nacherally  slow  to  go  decidin'  bets  ag'in  a 
lady's  looks,  but  whatever  Tucson  Jennie  sees  in 
the  appearance  of  this  person  which  is  likely  to 
inviggle  Dave  is  too  many  for  me.  I  softens  the 
statement  a  heap  when  I  says  she's  uglier  than  a 
Mexican  sheep. 

"  However,  that  don't  seem  to  occur  to  Tucson 
Jennie  ;  an'  Doc  Peets — who's  the  wisest  sharp  in 
Arizona — allows  to  me  afterwards  as  how  Tucson 
Jennie  is  cuttin'  the  kyards  with  herse'f  desp'rate 
to  see  whether  she  declar's  war  at  the  very  time 
we  makes  our  start.  If  she  does,  she  turns  the 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy*  83 

low  kyard,  for  she  don't  say  nothin',  an'  we  gets 
away,  an'  all  is  profound  peace. 

"  Four  days  later  we're  in  camp  by  a  water-hole 
in  the  frill  of  the  foot-hills.  The  Britons  has  got 
up  a  wall  tent  an'  is  shorely  havin'  a  high  an'  lavish 
time.  Dave  an'  me  ain't  payin'  no  attention  to 
'em  speshul,  as  we  don't  see  how  none  is  needed. 
Besides,  we  has  some  hard  ridin'  to  do  lookin'  up 
places  for  a  line  of  sign  camps. 

"  It's  the  second  day  when  we  notices  an  outfit 
of  Injuns  camped  down  the  valley  from  us. 
They's  all  serene  an'  peaceful  enough ;  with 
squaws,  papooses,  an'  dogs  ;  an'  ain't  thinkin'  no 
more  of  bein'  hostile  than  we  be. 

"  Of  course,  no  sooner  does  these  yere  Britons 
of  ours  behold  this  band  of  savages  than  they  has 
to  go  projectin'  round  'em.  That's  the  worst 
thing  about  a  towerist ;  he's  that  loaded  with 
cur'osity,  an'  that  gregar'ous  an'  amiable,  he  has 
to  go  foolin'  'round  every  stranger  he  tracks  up 
with.  In  their  ign'rance  they  even  gets  that  roode 
an'  insultin'  at  times,  that  I  knows  'em  who's  that 
regardless  an*  imp'lite  as  to  up  an'  ask  a  rank 
stranger  that  a-way  to  pass  'em  his  gun  to  look  at. 

"An*  so,  as  I  says,  no  sooner  does  them  Injuns 
get  near  us,  than  them  three  blessed  foreigners 
is  over  after  'em  ;  ropin'  at  em'  with  questions  an' 
invadin'  of  'em,  an'  examinin'  of  'em  like  the 
whole  tribe's  for  sale  an'  they  aims  to  acquire 
'em  if  riggers  is  reasonable. 


84  Wolfville. 

"  I  never  does  know  what  the  female  towerist 
says  or  does  to  that  particular  aborigine — nothin' 
most  likely ;  but  it  ain't  a  day  when  one  of  them 
Injuns  settles  it  with  himse'f  he  wants  to  wed 
her.  The  towerists  is  in  ign'rance  of  the  views 
of  this  savage,  who  goes  about  dealin'  his  game 
Injun  fashion. 

"  It's  this  a-way :  Dave  an'  me  trails  in  one 
evenin'  some  weary  an'  played ;  it's  been  a  hard 
ride  that  day.  Which  the  first  thing  we  lays 
eyes  on  at  the  camp  shorely  livens  us  up  a  lot. 
Thar,  tied  to  the  wagon-wheels,  is  nine  ponies, 
which  the  same  belongs  to  the  Injuns. 

"  '  Whatever  be  these  y  ere  broncos  doin'  yere  ? ' 
says  Dave,  for  we  allows,  the  first  dash  outen  the 
box,  mebby  the  Britons  makes  a  purchase. 

"  One  of  the  towerists  tells  a  long  an'  delighted 
story  about  the  gen'rosity  of  the  Injuns. 

"  '  Actooally,'  says  this  towerist,  "  them  gen'- 
rous  savages  leads  up  these  yere  nine  ponies  an' 
donates  'em/ 

"  Dave  an'  me  asks  questions  ;  and  all  thar  is  to 
the  deal — which  it's  shore  enough  to  bust  Dave's 
fam'ly  before  it's  over — them  Injuns  brings  up  the 
nine  ponies  all  respectful,  an'  leaves  'em  hobbled 
out,  mebby  it's  a  hundred  yards  from  the  Britons, 
an'  rides  away.  The  Britons,  deemin*  this  bluff 
as  in  the  line  of  gifts,  capers  over  an'  possesses 
themse'fs  of  the  ponies  an'  leads  'em  in.  That's 
the  outside  of  the  story. 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy*  85 

"  '  Well,  stranger,'  says  Dave  in  reply,  takin' 
of  the  towerist  one  side,  '  I  ain't  aimin'  to  dis- 
courage you  none,  but  you-alls  has  gone  an'  got 
all  tangled  up  in  your  lariat.' 

"  '  What  for  an  ontanglement  is  it  ?  '  asks  the 
towerist. 

"'  Nothin','  says  Dave,  sorter  breakin'  it  to  him 
easy,  '  nothin',  only  you've  done  married  your 
daughter  to  one  of  them  Injuns.' 

"  When  Dave  announces  this  yere  trooth  it 
shore  looks  like  the  Briton's  goin'  to  need  whiskey 
to  uphold  himse'f.  But  he  reorganizes,  an'  Dave 
explains  that  the  Injuns,  when  they  trails  in  with 
the  ponies,  is  simply  shufflin'  for  a  weddin' ; 
they's  offerin'  what  they-alls  calls  a  *  price '  for 
the  woman. 

" '  An'  when  you-alls  leads  in  the  ponies,'  says 
Dave, '  that  settles  it.  You  agrees  to  deal  right 
thar.  To-morrow,  now,  this  yere  buck,  whoever 
he  is,  will  come  surgin'  in  with  his  relations 
plumb  down  to  third  cousins  ;  an'  he  expects 
you'll  be  dead  ready  to  feed  'em,  an'  wind  up 
the  orgy  by  passin'  over  the  bride.' 

"  You  can  bet  them  reecitals  of  Dave's  is  plenty 
horrible  to  the  towerist.  He  allows  we  must 
keep  it  from  his  daughter;  an'  then  he  puts  his 
whole  outfit  in  Dave's  hands,  to  get  'em  safe  onto 
high  grounds. 

"  '  Can't  we  pull  our  freight  in  the  night  ?  '  says 
the  towerist,  an'  he's  shorely  anxious. 


86  Wolfville* 

"'Too  much  moon,'  says  Dave;  'an*  then, 
ag'in,  the  whole  Injun  outfit's  below  us  in  the 
draw,  an'  we  never  gets  by  once  in  a  thousand 
times.  No,'  goes  on  Dave,  '  one  shore  thing : 
we  can't  back  out  nor  crawl  off.  We-alls  has  to 
play  the  hand  plumb  through.' 

"  Then  Dave  tells  the  towerist  him  an'  me 
talks  over  this  yere  weddin'  which  he  done  goes 
into  so  inadvertent ;  an'  if  thar's  a  chance  to  save 
him  from  becomin'  a  father-in-law  abrupt,  we'll 
play  it  to  win. 

"  '  This  yere  is  the  only  wagon-track  out/  says 
Dave  to  me,  after  we  pow-wows  an  hour.  *  You 
go  down  to  them  Injuns,  an'  find  the  right  buck 
that  a-way,  an'  tell  him  the  squaw's  got  a  buck 
now.  Tell  him  he's  barred.  Which  at  this  p'int 
in  your  revelations  he's  due  to  offer  a  fight,  an' 
of  course  you  takes  him.  Tell  him  at  first-drink 
time  to-morrow  mornin'  he  finds  me  ready  to 
fight  for  the  squaw.' 

"  '  This  whole  business  makes  me  tired,  though,' 
says  Dave,  a  heap  disgustad.  '  If  these  eediots 
had  let  them  Injuns  alone;  or  even-  if  they  dis- 
dains the  ponies  when  they  was  brought  up,  this 
yere  could  be  fixed  easy.  But  now  it's  fight  or 
give  up  the  woman,  so  you  go  down,  as  I  says, 
an'  arrange  for  the  dance/ 

14  Of  course  thar's  no  explainin'  nothin*  to  In- 
juns. You  might  as  well  waste  time  expoundin' 
to  coyotes  an'  jack-rabbits.  All  that's  left  for 


HE'S  SHORE  A  FASH'NABLE  LOOKIN'  INJUN." — Page  87. 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy*  8  7 

me  to  do  is  trail  out  after  my  savage,  as  Dave 
says,  an'  notify  him  that  this  weddin'  he  pro- 
poses is  postponed  an'  all  bets  is  off. 

"  I  finds  him  easy  enough,  an'  saws  it  off  on 
him  in  Spanish  how  the  game  stacks  up.  But 
he  ain't  cheerful  about  it,  an'  displays  a  mighty 
baleful  sperit.  Jest  as  Tutt  allows  he's  out  to 
shoot  for  the  squaw  in  a  minute,  an'  as  thar's  no 
gettin'  away  from  it,  I  tells  him  to  paint  himse'f 
for  war  an'  come  a-runnin'. 

"  I  has  to  carry  a  hard  face  ;  for  we're  shorely 
in  for  it.  Yere  we  be  four  days  from  Wolfville, 
an'  the  Injuns — an'  I  reckons  thar's  twenty  bucks 
in  the  outfit — is  camped  in  between  us  an'  he'p. 

"This  Injun  who's  after  the  woman  is  named 
Black  Dog.  The  next  mornin'  Tutt  saddles  up 
an'  rides  off  to  one  side  of  our  camp,  mebby  it's  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  an'  then  gets  offen  his  pony  an' 
stands  thar.  We-alls  don't  onfold  to  the  tower- 
ists  the  details  of  the  deal,  not  even  to  the  In- 
jun's father-in-law.  The  towerist  female  is  that 
ign'rant  of  what's  going'  on,  she's  pesterin' 
'round  all  onconscious,  makin'  bakin'-powder  bis- 
cuit at  the  time.  I  looks  at  her  close,  an'  I  won- 
ders even  yet  what  that  Black  Dog's  thinkin'  of. 
But  I  don't  get  much  time  to  be  disgusted  over 
this  Black  Dog's  taste  before  he  comes  p'intin' 
out  from  among  his  people. 

"The  sun's  jest  gettin'  over  the  hills  to  the 
east,  an',  as  it  strikes  him,  he's  shore  a  fash'n- 


88  Wolfvilie. 

able  lookin'  Injun.  He  ain't  got  nothin'  on  but  a 
war-bunnit  an'  a  coat  of  paint.  The  rest  of  his 
trousseau  he  confines  to  his  Winchester  an'  belt. 
He's  on  his  war-pony,  an'  the  bronco's  stripped 
as  bare  as  this  Black  Dog  is ;  not  a  strap  from 
muzzle  to  tail.  This  bridegroom  Injun's  tied  its 
mane  full  of  ribbons,  an'  throws  a  red  blanket 
across  his  pony's  withers  for  general  effects. 
Take  it  all  over,  he's  a  nifty-lookin'  savage. 

"  So  far  as  the  dooel  goes,  Dave  ain't  runnin' 
no  resk.  He  stands  thar  on  the  ground  an'  keeps 
his  hoss  between  him  an'  this  yere  Black  Dog. 
It's  a  play  which  forces  the  bridegroom's  hand, 
too.  He's  due,  bein'  Injun,  to  go  circlin'  Dave 
an'  do  his  shootin'  on  the  canter. 

"  An'  that's  what  this  weak-minded  savage 
does.  He  breaks  into  a  lope  an'  goes  sailin' 
'round  Dave  like  a  hawk.  Durin'  them  exercises 
he  lays  over  on  the  shoulder  of  his  hoss  an'  bangs 
away  from  onder  its  neck  with  one  hand,  permiscus. 

"  This  is  mere  frivolity.  Thar  ain't  no  white 
gent  who  could  shoot  none  onder  sech  condi- 
tions;  an'  Injuns  can't  shoot  nohow.  They 
don't  savey  a  hind  sight.  An',  as  I  remarks,  if 
Dave's  hit  any,  it's  goin'  to  shorely  be  an  acci- 
dent, an*  accidents  don't  happen  none  in  Arizona  ; 
leastwise  not  with  guns. 

"  Mebby  this  Black  Dog's  banged  away  three 
times,  when  Dave,  who's  been  followin'  of  him 
through  the  sights  for  thirty  seconds,  onhooks  his 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy*  89 

rifle,  an'  the  deal  comes  to  a  full  stop.  Dave's 
shootin'  a  Sharp's,  with  a  hundred  an'  twenty 
grains  of  powder,  an'  the  way  he  sends  a  bullet 
plumb  through  that  war-pony  an'  this  yere  Black 
Dog,  who's  hangin'  on  its  off  side,  don't  bother 
him  a  bit.  The  pony  an'  the  Black  Dog  goes 
over  on  their  heads. 

"  Dave  rides  in,  an'  brings  the  blanket  an*  war- 
bunnit.  Even  then,  the  female  towerist,  which 
is  the  object  of  the  meeting  don't  seem  informed 
none  of  the  course  of  events.  The  fact  is,  she 
never  does  acquire  the  rights  of  it  till  we-alls  is 
two  days  back  on  the  return  trail. 

"  Thar's  no  more  bother.  Injuns  is  partic'lar 
people,  that  a-way,  about  etiquette  as  they  saveys 
it,  an*  followin'  Dave's  downin'  this  Black  Dog 
they  ain't  makin'  a  moan  or  a  move.  They  takes 
it  plenty  solemn  an'  mute,  an'  goes  to  layin'  out 
the  Black  Dog's  obsequies  without  no  more  no- 
tice of  us.  It's  a  squar*  deal ;  they  sees  that ; 
an'  they  ain't  filin*  no  objections.  As  for  our 
end  of  the  game,  we  moves  out  for  Wolfville, 
makin'  no  idle  delays  whatever. 

"  Goin'  in,  Dave,  after  thinkin'  some,  su'gests 
to  me  that  it's  likely  to  be  a  heap  good  story  not 
to  tell  Tucson  Jennie. 

"  *  Females  is  illogical,  that  a-way,'  says  Dave, 
*  an*  I  ain't  goin*  to  have  time  to  eddicate  Jennie 
to  a  proper  view  of  this  yere.  So  I  reckons  it's 
goin'  to  be  a  crafty  play  not  to  tell  her.' 


90  Wolfville. 

"  The  Britons  has  been  gone  two  weeks  when 
Tucson  Jennie  learns  the  story.  Them  towerists 
is  plumb  weary  of  Arizona  when  we  trails  into 
Wolfville,  an'  don't  seem  to  tarry  a  second 
before  they  lines  out  for  Tucson. 

"  '  They  jest  hits  a  high  place  or  two/  says 
Jack  Moore,  after  he  hears  of  them  designs  of  the 
Black  Dog,  '  an'  they'll  be  'way  yonder  out  of  the 
country.  I  don't  reckon  none  of  'em'll  ever  come 
back  soon,  neither.' 

"  But  it's  the  towerist  woman  makes  the  trou- 
ble from  start  to  finish.  It's  a  letter  from  her 
which  she  writes  back  to  Dave,  allowin'  she'll 
thank  him  some  more  as  her  preserver,  that  brings 
the  news  to  Jennie.  Tucson  Jennie  gets  this 
missive,  an'  ups  an'  rifles  an'  reads  it  to  herse'f  a 
whole  lot.  It's  then  Tucson  Jennie  gives  it  out 
cold,  Dave  is  breakin'  her  heart,  an'  tharupon 
prances  'round  for  her  shaker  an'  goes  over  to 
Missis  Rucker's. 

"  The  whole  camp  knows  the  story  in  an  hour, 
an'  while  we-alls  sympathizes  with  Dave  of 
course,  no  one's  blamin'  Tucson  Jenn-ie.  She's  a 
female,  an*  onresponsible,  for  one  thing  ;  an*  then, 
ag'in,  Dave's  a  heap  onlikely  to  stand  any  con- 
demnations of  his  wife. 

"  '  She's  as  good  a  woman  as  ever  wears  a  moc- 
casin,' says  Dave,  while  he's  recoverin'  of  his 
sperits  at  the  Red  Light  bar. 

"  An'  we-alls   allows  she  shorely  is ;  an'  then 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy*  9 1 

everybody  looks  pensive  an'  sincere  that  a-way, 
so's  not  to  harrow  Dave  none  an'  make  his  bur- 
dens more. 

"  *  But  whatever  can  I  do  to  fetch  her  back  to 
camp  ? '  asks  Dave,  appealin'  to  Enright  mighty 
wretched.  '  I  goes  plumb  locoed  if  this  yere 
keeps  on.' 

" '  My  notion  is,  we-alls  better  put  Missis  Rucker 
in  to  play  the  hand,'  says  Enright.  *  Missis 
Rucker's  a  female,  an'  is  shorely  due  to  know 
what  kyards  to  draw.  But  this  oughter  be  a  les- 
son to  you,  Dave,  not  to  go  romancin'  'round 
with  strange  women  no  more.' 

" '  It's  a  forced  play,  I  tells  you,'  says  Dave. 
4  Them  Injuns  has  us  treed.  It's  a  case  of  fight 
or  give  up  that  she-towerist,  so  what  was  I  to 
do?' 

"  *  Well,'  says  Enright,  some  severe, '  you  might 
at  least  have  consulted  with  this  yere  towerist 
woman  some.  But  you  don't.  You  simply  gets 
a  gun  an'  goes  trackin'  'round  in  her  destinies,  an* 
shootin'  up  her  prospects  like  you  has  a  personal 
interest.  You  don't  know  but  she  deplores  the 
deal  complete.  Peets,  an'  me,  an'  Boggs,  an'  all 
the  rest  of  us  is  your  friends,  an'  nacherally  par- 
tial on  your  side.  We-alls  figgers  you  means  well. 
But  what  I  says  is  this :  It  ain't  no  s'prisin' 
thing  when  Tucson  Jennie,  a-hearin'  of  them  pro- 
nounced attentions  which  you  pays  this  towerist 
lady,  is  filled  with  grief.  This  shootin'  up  an 


92  Wolfville. 

Injun,  'cause  he's  plannin'  to  wed  this  female 
some,  is  what  I  shorely  calls  pronounced  atten- 
tions. What  do  you  think  yourse'f,  Peets  ? ' 

"  '  Why !  I  readily  concedes  what  Dave  says,' 
remarks  Peets.  '  Ondoubtedly  he  acts  for  the 
best  as  he  sees  it.  But  jest  as  you  puts  it :  s'pose 
Dave  ain't  hungerin'  none  for  this  towerist 
woman  himse'f,  the  headlong  way  he  goes  after 
this  yere  Black  Dog,  settin'  of  the  war-jig  the 
next  sun-up,  an'  all  without  even  sayin'  "  Let  me 
look  at  your  hand,"  to  this  female,  jestifies  them 
inferences  of  yours.  Of  course  I  don't  say — 
an'  I  don't  reckon  none — Dave  thinks  of  this 
old-maid  maverick  once;  but,  he  sees  himse'f, 
he  shore  goes  to  war  a  heap  precipitate  an'  on- 
considerate,  an'  Tucson  Jennie  has  ondoubted 
grounds  to  buck.' 

"  *  Which,  when  you-alls  puts  it  so  cl'ar,  I 
thinks  so  too,'  says  Dave,  who's  listenin'  to  En- 
right  an'  Peets  a  mighty  sight  dejected.  *  But  I 
ain't  been  wedded  long — ain't  more'n  what  you 
might  call  an  amature  husband.  What  you-alls 
oughter  do  now  is  he'p  me  to  round  her  up.  If 
Tucson  Jennie's  a  bunch  of  cattle,  or  a  band  of 
ponies  as  has  stampeded,  you'd  be  in  the  saddle 
too  quick.' 

"  Missis  Rucker  shore  does  all  she  knows  to 
soften  Tucson  Jennie.  She  reminds  her  how  in 
the  old  times,  when  Dave  gets  his  chile  con  came 
at  the  O.  K.  House,  an'  the  party  from  the  States 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy.  93 

takes  to  reprovin'  of  Missis  Rucker  about  thar 
bein'  nothin'  but  coffee  an'  beans  to  eat,  Dave 
onlimbers  his  six-shooter  an'  goes  to  the  front. 

"  *  The  grub's  dealt  down,'  says  Dave,  explain- 
in'  to  this  obnoxious  tenderfoot,  '  till  thar's 
nothin'  left  in  the  box  but  beans,  coffee,  an'  beans. 
It's  a  cat-hop,  but  it  can't  be  he'ped  none.' 

"  '  Cat-hop  or  no  cat-hop,'  says  this  tenderfoot, 
1  I'm  dead  ag'in  beans ;  an'  you  can  gamble  I 
ain't  out  to  devour  no  sech  low  veg'tables;  none 
whatever.' 

"'You  jest  thinks  you  don't  like  beans/  says 
Dave,  an'  with  that  he  sorter  dictates  at  the  ten- 
derfoot with  his  gun,  an'  the  tenderfoot  thar- 
upon  lays  for  his  frijoles  like  he's  actooally 
honin'  tharfor. 

" '  Which  it  all  shows  Dave's  got  a  good  heart,' 
says  Missis  Rucker  to  Tucson  Jennie. 

"  *  That's  nothin'  to  do  with  his  makin'  love  to 
the  British  woman,'  says  Tucson  Jennie,  grittin' 
her  teeth  like  she  could  eat  the  sights  offen  a  six- 
shooter. 

"  '  He  never  makes  no  love  to  this  yere  woman,' 
says  Missis  Rucker. 

"  *  When  he  ketches  her  flirtin'  with  that  Injun,' 
demands  Tucson  Jennie,  '  don't  Dave  shoot  him 
up  a  lot  ?  What  do  you-all  call  makin'  love  ? 
He  never  downs  no  Injuns  for  me,  an*  I'm  his 
lawful  wife.'  An'  yere  Missis  Rucker  allows, 
when  she  reports  to  Enright  an'  Dave  an'  the 


94  Wolfville* 

rest  of  the  outfit  in  the  Red  Light,  Tucson  Jen- 
nie weeps  like  her  heart  is  shorely  broke. 

" l  Which  the  pore  girl's  to  be  pitied,'  says  En- 
right.  '  Dave,'  he  goes  on,  turnin'  to  Tutt  some 
fierce,  '  you  don't  deserve  no  sech  devotion  as 
this.' 

"'That's  whatever,'  says    Dan    Boggs,  lookin 
red   an'  truculent,  *  this  yere  Tucson  Jennie's  a 
angel.' 

"  But  thar  we  be,  up  ag'inst  it,  an'  not  a  man 
knows  a  thing  to  do  to  squar'  the  deal  with 
Dave's  wife.  We-alls,  calls  for  drinks  all  'round, 
an'  sets  about  an'  delib'rates.  At  last  Dave 
speaks  up  in  a  low-sperited  way. 

"'I  reckons  she  done  jumps  the  game  for 
good,'  he  says.  *  But  if  she's  goin',  I  wants  her 
to  have  a  layout.  If  you-alls  cares  to  go  over  to 
the  New  York  Store,  I  allows  I'll  play  in  a  blue 
stack  or  two  an'  win  her  out  some  duds.  I  wants 
her  to  quit  the  deal  ahead.' 

"  So  Dave  sets  out  for  the  New  York  Store, 
an*  the  rest  of  us  sorter  straggles  along.  Thar's 
nothin'  gay  about  us.  Dave  gets  a  shawl  an'  a 
dress  ;  nothin'  gaudy ;  it's  a  plain  red  an'  yaller. 
Missis  Rucker  packs  'em  over  to  Tucson  Jennie 
an'  gets  that  wrapped  up  in  the  deal  she  forgets 
utter  to  rustle  us  our  grub. 

"  Which,  it's  the  onexpected  as  happens  in 
Wolfville  same  as  everywhere  else.  The  minute 
Tucson  Jennie  sees  the  raiment,  an*  realizes  how 


Tucson  Jennie's  Jealousy*  95 

Dave  loves  her,  that  settles  it.  Her  heart  melts 
right  thar.  She  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  ;  jest  ropes 
onto  the  dry-goods  an'  starts  sobbin'  out  for  the 
'doby  where  she  an'  Dave  lives  at. 

"  Dave,  when  he  observes  this  yere  from  'cross 
the  street,  shakes  hands  all  'round,  but  don't 
trust  himse'f  with  no  remarks.  He  gives  our 
paws  a  squeeze  like  he  knows  he  can  rely  on  our 
friendship  an'  hunts  his  way  across  to  Tucson 
Jennie  without  a  word. 

" '  It's  all  right  about  bein'  yoothful  an'  light, 
that  a-way,'  says  Enright,  after  Dave  pulls  his 
freight,  '  but  Tutt  oughter  remember  yereafter, 
before  he  goes  mixin'  himse'f  up  with  sech  vain 
things  as  towerists  an'  Injuns  an'  British,  that 
he's  a  married  man.'  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Man  from  Red  Dog. 

"  LET  me  try  one  of  them  thar  seegyars." 

It  was  the  pleasant  after-dinner  hour,  and  I 
was  on  the  veranda  for  a  quiet  smoke.  The 
Old  Cattleman  had  just  thrown  down  his  paper; 
the  half-light  of  the  waning  sun  was  a  bit  too 
dim  for  his  eyes  of  seventy  years. 

"  Whenever  I  beholds  a  seegyar,"  said  the  old 
fellow,  as  he  puffed  voluminously  at  the  principe 
I  passed  over,  "  I  thinks  of  what  that  witness 
says  in  the  murder  trial  at  Socorro. 

'*  '  What  was  you-all  doin'  in  camp  yourse'f,' 
asks  the  jedge  of  this  yere  witness, '  the  day  of 
the  killin'  ?  ' 

" '  Which/  says  the  witness,  oncrossin'  his  laigs 
an'  lettin'  on  he  ain't  made  bashful  an'-oneasyby 
so  much  attentions  bein'  shown  him,  '  which  I 
was  a-eatin'  of  a  few  sardines,  a-drinkin'  of  a  few 
drinks  of  whiskey,  a-smokin'  of  a  few  seegyars, 
an'  a-romancin'  'round.'  " 

After  this  abrupt,  not  to  say  ambiguous  rem- 
iniscence, the  Old  Cattleman  puffed  contentedly 
a  moment. 


The  Man  from  Red  Dog,  97 

"  What  murder  trial  was  this  you  speak  of?"  I 
asked.  "  Who  had  been  killed  ?  " 

"  Now  I  don't  reckon  I  ever  does  know  who  it 
is  gets  downed,"  he  replied.  "  This  yere  murder 
trial  itse'f  is  news  to  me  complete.  They  was 
waggin'  along  with  it  when  I  trails  into  Socorro 
that  time,  an'  I  merely  sa'nters  over  to  the  co't 
that  a-way  to  hear  what's  goin'  on.  The  jedge  is 
sorter  gettin'  in  on  the  play  while  I'm  listenin'. 

"  *  What  was  the  last  words  of  this  yere  gent 
who's  killed  ?  '  asks  the  jedge  of  this  witness. 

"  *  As  nearly  as  I  keeps  tabs,  jedge/  says  the 
witness,  '  the  dyin'  statement  of  this  person  is : 
"  Four  aces  to  beat." 

"  *  Which  if  deceased  had  knowed  Socorro  like 
I  does,'  says  the  jedge,  like  he's  commentin'  to 
himse'f,  '  he'd  shorely  realized  that  sech  remarks 
is  simply  sooicidal.' " 

Again  the  Old  Cattleman  relapsed  into  silence 
and  the  smoke  of  the  principe. 

"  How  did  the  trial  come  out?"  I  queried. 
"  Was  the  accused  found  guilty  ?  " 

"  Which  the  trial  itse'f,"  he  replied,  "  don't  come 
out.  Thar's  apassel  of  the  boys  who's  come  into 
town  to  see  that  jestice  is  done,  an'  bein'  the 
round-up  is  goin'  for'ard  at  the  time,  they  nach- 
erally  feels  hurried  an'  pressed  for  leesure.  They- 
alls  oughter  be  back  on  the  range  with  their 
cattle.  So  the  fifth  day,  when  things  is  loiterin' 
along  at  the  trial  till  it  looks  like  the  law  has 


98  Wolfville, 

hobbles  on,  an'  the  word  goes  round  it's  goin'  to 
be  a  week  yet  before  the  jury  gets  action  on  this 
miscreant  who's  bein'  tried,  the  boys  becomes 
plumb  aggravated  an'  wearied  out  that  a-way ;  an', 
kickin'  in  the  door  of  the  calaboose,  they  searches 
out  the  felon,  swings  him  to  a  cottonwood  not 
otherwise  engaged,  an'  the  right  prevails.  Nach- 
erally  the  trial  bogs  down  right  thar." 

After  another  season  of  silence  and  smoke,  the 
Old  Cattleman  struck  in  again. 

"  Speakin'  of  killin's,  while  I'm  the  last  gent 
to  go  fosterin'  idees  of  bloodshed,  I'm  some  dis- 
couraged jest  now  by  what  I've  been  readin'  in 
that  paper  about  a  dooel  between  some  Eytalians, 
an'  it  shorely  tries  me  the  way  them  aliens  plays 
hoss.  It's  obvious  as  stars  on  a  cl'ar  night,  they 
never  means  fight  a  little  bit.  I  abhors  dooels, 
an'  cowers  from  the  mere  idee.  But,  after  all, 
business  is  business,  an'  when  folks  fights  'em  the 
objects  of  the  meetin'  oughter  be  blood.  But  the 
way  these  yere  European  shorthorns  fixes  it,  a 
gent  shorely  runs  a  heap  more  resk  of  becomin'  a 
angel  abrupt,  attendin'  of  a  Texas  cake-walk  in  a 
purely  social  way. 

"Do  they  ever  fight  dooels  in  the  West? 
Why,  yes — some.  My  mem'ry  comes  a-canterin' 
up  right  now  with  the  details  of  an  encounter  I 
once  beholds  in  Wolfville.  Thar  ain't  no  time 
much  throwed  away  with  a  dooel  in  the  South- 
west. The  people's  mighty  extemporaneous,  an' 


The  Man  from  Red  Dog.  99 

don't  go  browsin'  'round  none  sendin'  challenges 
in  writin',  an'  that  sort  of  flapdoodle.  When  a 
gent  notices  the  signs  a-gettin'  about  right  for 
him  to  go  on  the  war-path,  he  picks  out  his  meat, 
surges  up,  an'  declar's  himse'f.  The  victim,  who 
is  most  likely  a  mighty  serious  an'  experienced 
person,  don't  copper  the  play  by  makin'  vain 
remarks,  but  brings  his  gatlin'  into  play  sur- 
prisin'.  Next  it's  bang  !  bang!  bang!  mixed  up 
with  flashes  an'  white  smoke,  an'  the  dooel  is  over 
complete.  The  gent  who  still  adorns  our  midst 
takes  a  drink  on  the  house,  while  St.  Peter  on- 
bars  things  a  lot  an'  arranges  gate  an'  seat  checks 
with  the  other  in  the  realms  of  light.  That's  all 
thar  is  to  it.  The  tide  of  life  ag'in  flows  onward 
to  the  eternal  sea,  an'  nary  ripple. 

"  Oh,  this  yere  Wolfville  dooel !  Well,  it's  this 
a-way.  The  day  is  blazin'  hot,  an'  business 
layin'  prone  an'  dead — jest  blistered  to  death. 
A  passel  of  us  is  sorter  pervadin'  'round  the 
dance-hall,  it  bein'  the  biggest  an'  coolest  store  in 
camp.  A  monte  game  is  strugglin'  for  breath  in 
a  feeble,  fitful  way  in  the  corner,  an'  some  of 
us  is  a-watchin' ;  an'  some  a-settin'  'round  loose 
a-thinkin'  ;  but  all  keepin'  mum  an*  still,  'cause 
it's  so  hot. 

"  Jest  then  some  gent  on  a  hoss  goes  whoopin' 
up  the  street  a-yellin'  an'  a-whirlin'  the  loop  of 
his  rope,  an'  allowin'  generally  he's  havin'  a 
mighty  good  time. 


ioo  Wolfville. 

"'  Who's  this  yere  toomultuous  man  on  the 
hoss  ? '  says  Enright,  a-regardin'  of  him  in  a  dis- 
pleased way  from  the  door. 

"  *  I  meets  him  up  the  street  a  minute  back,' 
says  Dan  Boggs,  '  an'  he  allows  he's  called  "  The 
Man  from  Red  Dog."  He  says  he's  took  a  day 
off  to  visit  us,  an'  aims  to  lay  waste  the  camp 
some  before  he  goes  back.' 

"  About  then  the  Red  Dog  man  notes  old  Santa 
Rosa,  who  keeps  the  Mexican  baile  hall,  an'  his 
old  woman,  Marie,  a-fussin'  with  each  other  in 
front  of  the  New  York  Store.  They's  locked 
horns  over  a  drink  or  somethin',  an'  is  pow- 
wowin'  mighty  onamiable. 

" '  Whatever  does  this  yere  Mexican  fam'ly 
mean/  says  the  Red  Dog  man,  a-surveyin'  of 
'em  plenty  scornful,  'a-draggin'  of  their  domestic 
brawls  out  yere  to  offend  a  sufTerin'  public  for  ? 
Whyever  don't  they  stay  in  their  wickeyup  an' 
fight,  an'  not  take  to  puttin'  it  all  over  the  Amer- 
ican race  which  ain't  in  the  play  none  an'  don't 
thirst  tharfor?  However,  I  unites  an'  reecon- 
ciles  this  divided  household  easy.' 

"  With  this  the  Red  Dog  man  drops  the  loop 
of  his  lariat  'round  the  two  contestants  an' 
jumps  his  bronco  up  the  street  like  it's  come 
outen  a  gun.  Of  course  Santa  Rosa  an'  Marie 
goes  along  on  their  heads  permiscus. 

"  They  goes  coastin'  along  ontil  they  gets 
pulled  into  a  mesquite-bush,  an'  the  rope  slips 


The  Man  from  Red  Do  g>  101 

offen  the  saddle,  an'  thar  they  be.  We-alls  goes 
over  from  the  dance-hall,  extricatin'  of  'em,  an* 
final  they  rounds  up  mighty  hapless  an'  weak, 
an'  can  only  walk.  They  shorely  lose  enough 
hide  to  make  a  pair  of  leggin's. 

" '  Which  I  brings  'em  together  like  twins,' 
says  the  Red  Dog  man,  ridin'  back  for  his  rope. 
'  I  offers  two  to  one,  no  limit,  they  don't  fight 
none  whatever  for  a  month.' 

"  Which,  as  it  shorely  looks  like  he's  right,  no 
one  takes  him.  So  the  Red  Dog  man  leaves  his 
bluff  a-hangin'  an'  goes  into  the  dance-hall, 
a-givin'  of  it  out  cold  an'  clammy  he  meditates 
libatin'. 

" l  All  promenade  to  the  bar/  yells  the  Red 
Dog  man  as  he  goes  in.  '  I'm  a  wolf,  an*  it's 
my  night  to  howl.  Don't  'rouse  me,  barkeep, 
with  the  sight  of  merely  one  bottle ;  set  'em  all 
up.  I'm  some  fastidious  about  my  fire-water  an' 
likes  a  chance  to  select.' 

"Well,  we-alls  takes  our  inspiration,  an'  the 
Red  Dog  man  tucks  his  onder  his  belt  an'  then 
turns  round  to  Enright. 

"  '  I  takes  it  you're  the  old  he-coon  of  this 
yere  outfit?'  says  the  Red  Dog  man,  soopercil- 
lious-like. 

"'  Which,  if  I  ain't,'  says  Enright,  *  it's  plenty 
safe  as  a  play  to  let  your  wisdom  flow  this  a-way 
till  the  he-coon  gets  yere.' 

"'  If  thar's  anythin','  says  the  Red  Dog  man, 


io2  Wolfville* 

4  I  turns  from  sick,  it's  voylence  an'  deevastation. 
But  I  hears  sech  complaints  constant  of  this  yere 
camp  of  Wolfville,  I  takes  my  first  idle  day  to 
ride  over  an'  line  things  up.  Now  yere  I  be,  an' 
while  I  regrets  it,  I  finds  you-alls  is  a  lawless, 
onregenerate  set,  a  heap  sight  worse  than  roomer. 
I  now  takes  the  notion — for  I  sees  no  other  trail 
— that  by  next  drink  time  I  climbs  into  the  sad- 
dle, throws  my  rope  'round  this  den  of  sin,  an' 
removes  it  from  the  map.' 

" '  Nacherally,'  says  Enright,  some  sarcastic, 
'  in  makin*  them  schemes  you  ain't  lookin'  for  no 
trouble  whatever  with  a  band  of  tarrapins  like 
us.' 

" '  None  whatever,'  says  the  Red  Dog  man, 
mighty  confident.  *  In  thirty  minutes  I  distrib- 
utes this  yere  hamlet  'round  in  the  landscape 
same  as  them  Greasers ;  which  feat  becomin* 
hist'ry,  I  then  canters  back  to  Red  Dog.' 

"'Well,'  says  Enright,  'it's  plenty  p'lite  to 
let  us  know  what's  comin'  this  a-way.' 

" '  Oh  !  I  ain't  tellin'  you  none/  says  the  Red 
Dog  man,  '  I  simply  lets  fly  this  hint,  so  any  of 
you-alls  as  has  got  bric-a-brac  he  values  speshul, 
he  takes  warnin'  some  an'  packs  it  off  all  safe.' 

"  It's  about  then  when  Cherokee  Hall,  who's 
lookin'  on,  shoulders  in  between  Enright  an'  the 
Red  Dog  man,  mighty  positive.  Cherokee  is  a 
heap  sot  in  his  idees,  an'  I  sees  right  off  he's  took 
a  notion  ag'in  the  Red  Dog  man. 


The  Man  from  Red  Dog.  103 

" '  As  you've  got  a  lot  of  work  cut  out/  says 
Cherokee,  eyein'  the  Red  Dog  man  malignant, 
'  s'pose  we  tips  the  canteen  ag'in.' 

"  '  I  shorely  goes  you,'  says  the  Red  Dog  man. 
'  I  drinks  with  friend,  an'  I  drinks  with  foe ;  with 
the  pard  of  my  bosom  an'  the  shudderin'  victim 
of  my  wrath  all  sim'lar.' 

"Cherokee  turns  out  a  big  drink  an'  stands 
a-holdin'  of  it  in  his  hand.  I  wants  to  say  right 
yere,  this  Cherokee's  plenty  guileful. 

"  '  You  was  namin','  says  Cherokee,  '  some  pub- 
lic improvements  you  aims  to  make ;  sech  as 
movin'  this  yere  camp  'round  some,  I  believes?' 

"  '  That's  whatever,'  says  the  Red  Dog  man, 
'an'  the  holycaust  I  'nitiates  is  due  to  start  in 
fifteen  minutes.' 

"'I've  been  figgerin' on  you/  says  Cherokee, 
'  an'  I  gives  you  the  result  in  strict  confidence 
without  holdin'  out  a  kyard.  When  you-all  talks 
of  tearin'  up  Wolfville,  you're  a  liar  an'  a  hoss- 
thief,  an'  you  ain't  goin'  to  tear  up  nothinY 

"'What's  this  I  hears!'  yells  the  frenzied 
Red  Dog  man,  reachin'  for  his  gun. 

"  But  he  never  gets  it,  for  the  same  second 
Cherokee  spills  the  glass  of  whiskey  straight  in 
his  eyes,  an'  the  next  he's  anguished  an'  blind  as 
a  mole. 

" '  I'll  fool  this  yere  human  simoon  up  a  lot/ 
says  Cherokee,  a-hurlin'  of  the  Red  Dog  man  to 
the  floor,  face  down,  while  his  nine-inch  bowie 


io4  Wolfville. 

shines  in  his  hand  like  the  sting  of  a  wasp.  '  I 
shore  fixes  him  so  he  can't  get  a  job  clerkin*  in 
a  store,'  an'  grabbin'  the  Red  Dog  man's  ha'r, 
which  is  long  as  the  mane  of  a  pony,  he  slashes 
it  off  close  in  one  motion. 

"'Thar's  a  fringe  for  your  leggin's,  Nell,'  re- 
marks Cherokee,  a-turnin'  of  the  crop  over  to 
Faro  Nell.  '  Now,  Doc,'  Cherokee  goes  on  to 
Doc  Peets,  *  take  this  yere  Red  Dog  stranger 
over  to  the  Red  Light,  fix  his  eyes  all  right,  an' 
then  tell  him,  if  he  thinks  he  needs  blood  in  this, 
to  take  his  Winchester  an'  go  north  in  the 
middle  of  the  street.  In  twenty  minutes  by  the 
watch  I  steps  outen  the  dance-hall  door  a-lookin' 
for  him.  P'int  him  to  the  door  all  fair  an'  squar'. 
I  don't  aim  to  play  nothin'  low  on  this  yere 
gent.  He  gets  a  chance  for  his  ante.' 

"Doc  Peets  sorter  accoomilates  the  Red  Dog 
man,  who  is  cussin'  an'  carryin*  on  scand'lous, 
an'  leads  him  over  to  the  Red  Light.  In  a 
minute  word  comes  to  Cherokee  as  his  eyes  is 
roundin'  up  all  proper,  an'  that  he's  makin' 
war-medicine  an'  is  growin'  more-  hostile  con- 
stant, an'  to  heel  himse'f.  At  that  Chero- 
kee, mighty  ca'm,  sends  out  for  Jack  Moore's 
Winchester,  which  is  an  '  eight-squar','  latest 
model. 

"  '  Oh,  Cherokee  ! '  says  Faro  Nell,  beginnin'  to 
cry,  an'  curlin'  her  arms  'round  his  neck.  '  I'm 
'fraid  he's  goin'  to  down  you.  Ain't  thar  no 


The  Man  from  Red  Dog.  105 

way  to  fix  it  ?  Can't  Dan  yere  settle  with  this 
Red  Dog  man  ? ' 

"  '  Cert,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  *  an'  I  makes  the 
trip  too  gleeful.  Jest  to  spar'  Nell's  feelin's, 
Cherokee,  an'  not  to  interfere  with  no  gent's 
little  game,  I  takes  your  hand  an'  plays  it.' 

"  '  Not  none,'  says  Cherokee  ;  '  this  is  my  deal. 
Don't  cry,  Nellie,'  he  adds,  smoothin'  down  her 
yaller  ha'r.  '  Folks  in  my  business  has  to  hold 
themse'fs  ready  to  face  any  game  on  the  word, 
an'  they  never  weakens  or  lays  down.  An'  an- 
other thing,  little  girl ;  I  gets  this  Red  Dog  sharp, 
shore.  I'm  in  the  middle  of  a  run  of  luck  ;  I 
holds  fours  twice  last  night,  with  a  flush  an'  a 
full  hand  out  ag'in  'em.' 

"  Nell  at  last  lets  go  of  Cherokee's  neck,  an', 
bein'  a  female  an'  timid  that  a-way,  allows  she'll 
go,  an'  won't  stop  to  see  the  shootin'  none.  We 
applauds  the  idee,  thinkin'  she  might  shake  Cher- 
okee some  if  she  stays  ;  an'  of  course  a  gent  out 
shootin'  for  his  life  needs  his  nerve. 

"Well,  the  twenty  minutes  is  up;  the  Red 
Dog  man  gets  his  rifle  offen  his  saddle  an'  goes 
down  the  middle  of  the  street.  Turnin'  up  his 
big  sombrero,  he  squar's  'round,  cocks  his  gun, 
an'  waits.  Then  Enright  goes  out  with  Cher- 
okee an'  stands  him  in  the  street  about  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  Red  Dog  man.  After  Cherokee's 
placed  he  holds  up  his  hand  for  attention  an' 
says  : 


io6  Wolfville. 

" '  When  all  is  ready  I  stands  to  one  side  an' 
drops  my  hat.  You-alls  fires  at  will.' 

"  Enright  goes  over  to  the  side  of  the  street, 
counts  *  one,'  *  two,'  *  three,'  an'  drops  his  hat. 
Bangety  !  Bang !  Bang !  goes  the  rifles  like  the 
roll  of  a  drum.  Cherokee  can  work  a  Winches- 
ter like  one  of  these  yere  Yankee  'larm-clocks, 
an'  that  Red  Dog  hold-up  don't  seem  none  behind. 

"  About  the  fifth  fire  the^Red  Dog  man  sorter 
steps  for'ard  an'  drops  his  gun  ;  an'  after  standin' 
onsteady  for  a  second,  he  starts  to  cripplin' 
down  at  his  knees.  At  last  he  comes  ahead  on 
his  face  like  a  landslide.  Thar's  two  bullets 
plumb  through  his  lungs,  an'  when  we  gets  to 
him  the  red  froth  is  comin'  outen  his  mouth  some 
plenteous. 

"  We  packs  him  back  into  the  Red  Light  an* 
lays  him  onto  a  monte-table.  Bimeby  he  comes 
to  a  little  an'  Peets  asks  him  whatever  he  thinks 
he  wants. 

'"  I  wants  you-alls  to  take  off  my  moccasins  an' 
pack  me  into  the  street/  says  the  Red  Dog  man. 
'I  ain't  allowin'  for  my  old  mother-in  Missoury 
to  be  told  as  how  I  dies  in  no  gin-mill,  which  she 
shorely  'bominates  of  'em.  An'  I  don't  die  with 
no  boots  on,  neither.' 

"  We-alls  packs  him  back  into  the  street  ag'in, 
an'  pulls  away  at  his  boots.  About  the  time  we 
gets  'em  off  he  sags  back  convulsive,  an*  thar  he 
is  as  dead  as  Santa  Anna. 


The  Man  from  Red  Dog. 


107 


"  '  What  sort  of  a  game  is  this,  anyhow  ?  '  says 
Dan  Boggs,  who,  while  we  stands  thar,  has  been 
pawin'  over  the  Red  Dog  man's  rifle.  '  Looks 
like  this  vivacious  party's  plumb  locoed.  Yere's 
his  hind-sights  wedged  up  for  a  thousand  yards, 
an'  he's  been  a-shootin'  of  cartridges  with  a  hun- 
dred an'  twenty  grains  of  powder  into  'em.  Be- 
tween the  sights  an'  the  jump  of  the  powder, 
he's  shootin'  plumb  over  Cherokee  an'  aimin' 
straight  at  him.' 

"  '  Nellie/  says  Enright,  lookin'  remorseful  at 
the  girl,  who  colors  up  an'  begins  to  cry  ag'in, 
'  did  you  cold-deck  this  yere  Red  Dog  sport  this 
a-way  ?  ' 

"'I'm  'fraid,'  sobs  Nell,  'he  gets  Cherokee; 
so  I  slides  over  when  you-alls  is  waitin'  an'  fixes 
his  gun  some.' 

"'Which  I  should  shorely  concede  you  did,' 
says  Enright.  '  The  way  that  Red  Dog  gent 
manip'lates  his  weepon  shows  he  knows  his  game  ; 
an'  except  for  you  a-settin'  things  up  on  him,  I'm 
powerful  afraid  he'd  spoiled  Cherokee  a  whole 
lot' 

"  *  Well,  gents,'  goes  on  Enright,  after  thinkin' 
a  while,  *  I  reckons  we-alls  might  as  well  drink  on 
it.  Hist'ry  never  shows  a  game  yet,  an'  a  wo- 
man in  it,  which  is  on  the  squar',  an'  we  meekly 
b'ars  our  burdens  with  the  rest.'  " 


CHAPTER  DL 
Cherokee  Hall. 

"  AN'  you  can't  schedoole  too  much  good 
about  him,"  remarked  the  Old  Cattleman.  Here 
he  threw  away  the  remnant  of  the  principe,  and, 
securing  his  pipe,  beat  the  ashes  there-out  and 
carefully  reloaded  with  cut  plug.  Inevitably  the 
old  gentleman  must  smoke.  His  tone  and  air  as 
he  made  the  remark  quoted  were  those  of  a  man 
whose  convictions  touching  the  one  discussed 
were  not  to  be  shaken.  "  No,  sir,"  he  continued  ; 
"  when  I  looks  back'ard  down  the  trail  of  life,  if 
thar's  one  gent  who  aforetime  holds  forth  in 
Wolfville  on  whom  I  reflects  with  satisfaction, 
it's  this  yere  Cherokee  Hall." 

"To  judge  from  his  conduct,"  I  said,  "  in  the 
hard  case  of  the  Wilkins  girl,  as  well  as  his  re- 
mark as  she  left  on  the  stage,  I  should  hold  him 
to  be  a  person  of  sensibilities  as  well  as  benevo- 
lent impulse." 

It  was  my  purpose  to  coax  the  old  gentleman 
to  further  reminiscence. 

"  Benev'lent !  "  retorted  the  old  man.  "  Which 
I  should  shore  admit  it  !  What  he  does  for  this 


Cherokee  Hall.  109 

yere  young  Wilkins  female  ain't  a  marker. 
Thar's  the  Red  Dog  man  he  lets  out.  Thar's 
the  Stingin'  Lizard's  nephy  ;  he  stakes  said  yooth 
from  infancy.  *  Benev'lent ! '  says  you.  This 
party  Cherokee  is  that  benev'lent  he'd  give  away 
a  poker  hand.  I've  done  set  an'  see  him  give 
away  his  hand  in  a  jack-pot  for  two  hundred 
dollars  to  some  gent  'cross  the  table  who's  or- 
ganizin'  to  go  ag'in  him  an'  can't  afford  to  lose. 
An'  you  can  onderscore  it ;  a  winnin'  poker  hand, 
an'  him  holdin'  it,  is  the  last  thing  a  thorough- 
bred kyard-sharp'll  give  away.  But  as  I  says,  I 
sees  this  Cherokee  do  it  when  the  opp'sition  is 
settin'  in  hard  luck  an'  couldn't  stand  to  lose. 

"  How  would  he  give  his  hand  away?  Throw 
it  in  the  diskyard  an'  not  play  it  none  ;  jest  nach- 
erally  let  the  gent  who's  needy  that  a-way  rake  in 
the  chips  on  the  low  hand.  Cherokee  mebby  does 
it  this  fashion  so's  he  don't  wound  the  feelin's 
of  this  yere  victim  of  his  gen'rosity.  Thar's  folks 
who  turns  sens'tive  an'  ain't  out  to  take  alms 
none,  who's  feelin's  he  spar's  that  a-way  by  losin' 
to  'em  at  poker  what  they  declines  with  scorn 
direct. 

"  '  Benev'lent,'  is  the  way  you  puts  it !  Son, 
*  benev'lent '  ain't  the  word.  This  sport  Chero- 
kee Hall  ain't  nothin'  short  of  char'table. 

"  Speakin'  wide  flung  an'  onrestrained,  Chero- 
kee, as  I  mentions  to  you  before,  is  the  modest- 
est,  decentest  longhorn  as  ever  shakes  his  antlers 


no  Wblfville. 

in  Arizona.  He  is  slim  an'  light,  an'  a  ondoubted 
kyard-sharp  from  his  moccasins  up.  An'  I 
never  knows  him  to  have  a.  peso  he  don't  gamble 
for.  Nothin'  common,  though  ;  I  sees  him  one 
night  when  he  sets  ca'mly  into  some  four-handed 
poker,  five  thousand  dollars  table  stake,  an'  he's 
sanguine  an'  hopeful  about  landin'  on  his  feet  as 
a  Cimmaron  sheep.  Of  course  times  is  plenty 
flush  in  them  days,  an'  five  thousand  don't  seem 
no  sech  mammoth  sum.  Trade  is  eager  an' 
values  high  ;  aces-up  frequent  callin'  for  five  hun- 
dred dollars  before  the  draw.  Still  we  ain't  none 
of  us  makin'  cigarettes  of  no  sech  roll  as  five 
thousand.  The  days  ain't  quite  so  halcyon  as  all 
that  neither. 

"  But  what  I  likes  speshul  in  Cherokee  Hall  is 
his  jedgement.  He's  every  time  right.  He  ain't 
talkin'  much,  an'  he  ain't  needin'  advice  neither, 
more'n  a  steer  needs  a  saddle-blanket.  But  when 
he  concloodes  to  do  things,  you  can  gamble  he's 
got  it  plenty  right. 

"  On.e  time  this  Cherokee  an'  Texas  Thompson 
is  comin'  in  from  Tucson  on  the  stage.  Besides 
Cherokee  an'  Texas,  along  comes  a  female,  close- 
herdin'  of  two  young-ones ;  which  them  infants 
might  have  been  t'rant'lers  an'  every  one  a  heap 
happier.  Sorter  as  range-boss  of  the  whole  out- 
fit is  a  lean  gent  in  a  black  coat.  Well,  they 
hops  in,  an'  Cherokee  gives  'em  the  two  back 
seats  on  account  of  the  female  an'  the  yearlin's. 


Cherokee  Hall,  in 

" '  My  name  is  Jones,'  says  the  gent  in  the 
black  coat,  when  he  gets  settled  back  an'  the 
stage  is  goin',  'an'  I'm  an  exhortin'  evangelist.  I 
plucks  brands  from  the  burnin'.' 

"  '  I'm  powerful  glad  to  know  it,'  says  Texas, 
who  likes  talk.  *  Them  games  of  chance  which 
has  vogue  in  this  yere  clime  is  some  various,  an' 
I  did  think  I  shorely  tests  'em  all ;  but  if  ever  the 
device  you  names  is  open  in  Wolfville  I  over- 
looks the  same  complete.' 

"  '  Pore,  sinkin'  soul  ! '  says  the  black-coat  gent 
to  the  female  ;  '  he's  a-flounderin*  in  the  mire  of 
sin.  Don't  you  know,'  he  goes  on  to  Texas,  *  my 
perishin'  friend,  you  are  bein'  swept  downward  in 
the  river  of  your  own  sinful  life  till  your  soul  will 
be  drowned  in  the  abyss?  " 

"  '  Well,  no,'  says  Texas,  '  I  don't.  I  allows 
I'm  makin'  a  mighty  dry  ford  of  it.' 

"  '  Lost !  lost !  lost ! '  says  the  black-coat  gent, 
a-leanin'  back  like  he's  plumb  dejected  that  a-way 
an'  hopeless.  'It  is  a  stiff-necked  gen'ration  an' 
sorely  perverse  a  lot.' 

"  The  stage  jolts  along  two  or  three  miles,  an' 
nothin'  more  bein'  said.  The  black-coat  gent  he 
groans  occasionally,  which  worries  Texas;  an'  the 
two  infants,  gettin'  restless,  comes  tumblin'  over 
onto  Cherokee  an'  is  searchin'  of  his  pockets  for 
mementoes.  Which  this  is  about  as  refreshin' 
to  Cherokee  as  bein'  burned  at  the  stake.  But 
the  mother  she  leans  back  an'  smiles,  an'  of 


ii2  Wolfville. 

course  he's  plumb  he'pless.  Finally  the  black- 
coat  gent  p'ints  in  for  another  talk. 

"  *  What  is  your  name,  my  pore  worm  ?  '  says 
the  black-coat  gent,  addressin'  of  Texas ;  '  an' 
whatever  avocation  has  you  an'  your  lost  com- 
panion?' 

"  '  Why,'  says  Texas,  '  this  yere's  Hall — Chero- 
kee Hall.  He  turns  faro  in  the  Red  Light;  an',' 
continues  Texas,  a-lowerin'  of  his  voice,  '  he's  as 
squar'  a  gent  as  ever  counted  a  deck.  Actooally, 
pard,  you  might  not  think  it,  but  all  that  gent 
knows  about  settin'  up  kyards,  or  dealin'  double, 
or  any  sech  sinful  scheme,  is  mere  tradition.' 

"  '  Brother,'  says  the  female,  bristlin'  up  an' 
tacklin'  the  black-coat  gent,  '  don't  talk  to  them 
persons  no  more.  Them's  gamblers,  an'  mighty 
awful  men  ; '  an'  with  that  she  snatches  away  the 
yearlin's  like  they's  contam'nated. 

"This  is  relief  to  Cherokee,  but  the  young- 
ones  howls  like  coyotes,  an'  wants  to  come  back 
an'  finish  pillagin'  him.  But  the  mother  she 
spanks  'em,  an'  when  Texas  is  goin'  to  give  'em 
some  cartridges  outen  his  belt  to  amoose  'em, 
she  sasses  him  scand'lous,  an'  allows  she  ain't 
needin'  no  attentions  from  him.  Then  she  snorts 
at  Texas  an'  Cherokee  contemptuous.  The  young- 
ones  keeps  on  yellin'  in  a  mighty  onmelodious 
way,  an'  while  Cherokee  is  ca'm  an'  don't  seem 
like  he  minds  it  much,  Texas  gets  some  nervous. 
At  last  Texas  lugs  out  a  bottle,  aimin'  to  com- 


Cherokee  Hall.  113 

pose  his  feelins',  which  they's  some  harrowed  by 
now. 

"  '  Well,  I  never  !  '  shouts  the  woman  ;  *  I 
shorely  sees  inebriates  ere  now,  but  at  least  they 
has  the  decency  not  to  pull  a  bottle  that  a-way 
before  a  lady.' 

"  This  stampedes  Texas  complete,  an'  he 
throws  the  whiskey  outen  the  stage  an'  don't  get 
no  drink. 

"  It's  along  late  in  the  mornin'  when  the  stage 
strikes  the  upper  end  of  Apache  Canyon.  This 
yere  canyon  is  lately  reckoned  some  bad. 
Nothin'  ever  happens  on  the  line,  but  them  is  the 
days  when  Cochise  is  cavortin'  'round  plenty 
loose,  an'  it's  mighty  possible  to  stir  up  Apaches 
any  time  a-layin'  in  the  hills  along  the  trail  to 
Tucson.  If  they  ever  gets  a  notion  to  stand  up 
the  stage,  they's  shore  due  to  be  in  this  canyon  ; 
wherefore  Cherokee  an'  Texas  an'  Old  Monte 
who's  drivin'  regards  it  s'picious. 

"  *  Send  'em  through  on  the  jump,  Monte,'  says 
Cherokee,  stickin'  out  his  head. 

"The  six  hosses  lines  out  at  a  ten-mile  gait, 
which  rattles  things,  an'  makes  the  black-coat 
gent  sigh,  while  the  young-ones  pours  forth  some 
appallin'  shrieks.  The  female  gets  speshul  mad 
at  this,  allowin'  they's  playin'  it  low  down  on 
her  fam'ly.  But  she  takes  it  out  in  cuffin'  the 
yearlin's  now  an'  then,  jest  to  keep  'em  yellin', 
an'  don't  say  nothin'. 


ii4  Wolfville. 

"  Which  the  stage  is  about  half  through  the 
canyon,  when  up  on  both  sides  a  select  assort- 
ment of  Winchesters  begins  to  bang  an'  jump 
permiscus ;  the  same  goin'  hand-in-hand  with 
whoops  of  onusual  merit.  With  the  first  shot 
Old  Monte  pours  the  leather  into  the  team,  an' 
them  hosses  surges  into  the  collars  like  cyclones. 

"  It's  lucky  aborigines  ain't  no  shots.  They 
never  yet  gets  the  phelosophy  of  a  hind  sight 
none,  an'  generally  you  can't  reach  their  bullets 
with  a  ten-foot  pole,  they's  that  high  above  your 
head.  The  only  thing  as  gets  hit  this  time  is 
Texas.  About  the  beginnin',  a  little  cloud  of 
dust  flies  outen  the  shoulder  of  his  coat,  his 
face  turns  pale,  an'  Cherokee  knows  he's  creased. 

" '  Did  they  get  you,  Old  Man  ?  '  says  Cherokee, 
some  anxious. 

" '  No,'  says  Texas,  tryin'  to  brace  himse'f. 
'  I'll  be  on  velvet  ag'in  in  a  second.  I  now  longs, 
however,  for  that  whiskey  I  hurls  overboard  so 
graceful.' 

"  The  Apaches  comes  tumblin'  down  onto  the 
trail  an'  gives  chase,  a-shootin'  an''  a-yellin*  a 
heap  zealous.  As  they's  on  foot,  an*  as  Old 
Monte  is  makin'  fifteen  miles  an  hour  by  now, 
they  merely  manages  to  hold  their  own  in  the 
race,  about  forty  yards  to  the  r'ar. 

"  This  don't  go  on  long  when  Cherokee,  after 
thinkin',  says  to  Texas,  *  This  yere  is  the  way  I 
figgers  it.  If  we-alls  keeps  on,  them  Injuns  is  that 


Cherokee  HalL  115 

fervent  they  runs  in  on  us  at  the  ford.  With 
half  luck  they's  due  to  down  either  a  hoss  or 
Monte — mebby  both ;  in  which  event  the  stage 
shorely  stops,  an'  it's  a  fight.  This  bein'  troo, 
an'  as  I'm  'lected  for  war  anyhow,  I'm  goin'  to 
caper  out  right  yere,  an'  pull  on  the  baile  myse'f. 
This'll  stop  the  chase,  an'  between  us,  pard,  it's 
about  the  last  chance  in  the  box  this  pore  female 
an'  her  offsprings  has.  An'  I  plays  it  for  'em, 
win  or  lose.' 

"  *  Them's  my  motives,'  says  Texas,  tryin'  to 
pull  himse'f  together.  '  Shall  we  take  this  he- 
shorthorn  along  ?  '  An'  he  p'ints  where  them 
four  tenderfoots  is  mixed  up  together  in  the  back 
of  the  stage. 

"  '  He  wouldn't  be  worth  a  white  chip,'  says 
Cherokee,  'an'  you-all  is  too  hard  hit  to  go, 
Texas,  yourse'f.  So  take  my  regards  to  En- 
right  an'  the  boys,  an'  smooth  this  all  you  know 
for  Faro  Nell.  I  makes  the  trip  alone.' 

"  '  Not  much,'  says  Texas.  '  My  stack  goes  to 
the  center,  too.' 

"  But  it  don't,  though,  'cause  Texas  has  bled 
more'n  he  thinks.  The  first  move  he  makes  he 
tips  over  in  a  faint. 

"  Cherokee  picks  up  his  Winchester,  an',  open- 
in'  the  door  of  the  stage,  jumps  plumb  free,  an' 
they  leaves  him  thar  on  the  trail. 

"  It's  mebby  an  hour  later  when  the  stage 
comes  into  Wolfville  on  the  lope.  Texas  is  still 


n6  Wolfville* 

in  a  fog,  speakin'  mental,  an'  about  bled  to  death  ; 
while  them  exhortin'  people  is  outen  their  minds 
entire. 

"  In  no  time  thar's  a  dozen  of  us  lined  out  for 
Cherokee.  Do  we  locate  him  ?  Which  I  should 
say  we  shorely  discovers  him.  Thar's  a  bullet 
through  his  laig,  an'  thar  he  is  with  his  back 
ag'in  a  rock  wall,  his  Winchester  to  the  front, 
his  eyes  glitterin',  a-holdin'  the  canyon.  Thar 
never  is  no  Injun  gets  by  him.  Of  course  they 
stampedes  prompt  when  they  hears  us  a-comin', 
so  we  don't  get  no  fight. 

"  '  I  hopes  you  nails  one,  Cherokee,'  says  En- 
right  ;  '  playin'  even  on  this  yerelaig  they  shoots.' 

"  '  I  win  once,  I  reckons',  says  Cherokee,  '  over 
behind  that  big  rock  to  the  left.' 

"  Shore  enough  he's  got  one  Injun  spread  out  ; 
an',  comin'  along  a  little,  Jack  Moore  turns  up  a 
second. 

"  '  Yere's  another,'  says  Jack,  *  which  breaks 
even  on  the  bullet  in  Texas.' 

"  '  That's  right,'  says  Cherokee,  '  I  remembers 
now  thar  is  two.  The  kyards  is  comin'  some 
fast,  an'  I  overlooks  a  bet.' 

"  We-alls  gets  Cherokee  in  all  right,  an'  next 
day  'round  comes  the  female  tenderfoot  to  see 
him. 

"  *  I  wants  to  thank  my  defender,'  she  says. 

"'You  ain't  onder  no  obligations,  whatever, 
ma'am',  says  Cherokee,  risin'  up  a  little,  while 


Cherokee  HalL  117 

Faro  Nell  puts  another  goose-h'ar  piller  onder 
him.  *  I  simply  prefers  to  do  my  fightin'  in  the 
canyon  to  doin'  it  at  the  ford ;  that's  all.  It's 
only  a  matter  of  straight  business ;  nothin' 
more'n  a  preference  I  has.  Another  thing, 
ma'am ;  you-all  forgives  it,  seein'  I'm  a  gent 
onused  to  childish  ways ;  but  when  I  makes  the 
play  you  names,  I  simply  seizes  on  them  savages 
that  a-way  as  an  excuse  to  get  loose  from  them 
blessed  children  of  your'n  a  whole  lot.'  " 


CHAPTER  X. 
Texas  Thompson's  "  Election." 

"  AN'  between  us,"  remarked  the  Old  Cattle- 
man, the  observation  being  relevant  to  the  sub- 
ject of  our  conversation  on  the  occasion  of  one 
of  our  many  confabs,  "  between  you  an'  me,  I 
ain't  none  shore  about  the  merits  of  what  you- 
all  calls  law  an'  order.  Now  a  pains-takin'  an' 
discreet  vig'lance  committee  is  my  notion  of  a 
bulwark.  Let  any  outfit  take  a  bale  of  rope  an' 
a  week  off,  an'  if  their  camp  ain't  weeded  down 
to  right  principles  an'  a  quiet  life  at  the  end 
tharof,  then  I've  passed  my  days  as  vain  as  any 
coyote  which  ever  yelps. 

"  Of  course  thar  dawns  a  time  when  Wolfville 
has  to  come  to  it,  same  as  others.  They  takes 
to  diggin'  for  copper ;  an'  they  builds  the  Bird 
Cage  Op'ry  House,  an'  puts  in  improvements  gen- 
eral. We  even  culminates  in  a  paper,  which  Doc 
Peets  assures  us  is  the  flower  of  our  progress. 
Nacherally  on  the  heels  of  all  them  outbursts 
we  gives  up  our  simple  schemes,  organizes,  an' 
pulls  off  an  'lection.  But  as  Old  Man  Enright  is 
made  alcalde  tharby,  with  Jack  Moore  marshal, 


Texas  Thompson's  u  Election.*  i  1 9 

the  jolt  is  not  severe  nor  the  change  so  full  of 
notice. 

"It's  not  long  prior  to  these  yere  stampedes 
into  a  higher  moonicipal  life,  however,  when 
quite  a  b'ilin'  of  us  is  in  the  Red  Light  discussin' 
some  sech  future.  Our  rival,  Red  Dog,  is  al- 
lowin'  it's  goin'  to  have  a  mayor  or  somethin', 
an'  we  sorter  feels  like  our  hands  is  forced. 

"  '  For  myse'f,'  says  Old  Man  Enright,  when  the 
topic  is  circ'latin',  with  the  whiskey  followin'  suit, 
an'  each  gent  is  airin'  his  idees  an'  paintin*  his 
nose  accordin'  to  his  taste, '  for  myse'f,  I  can  see 
it  comin'.  Thar's  to  be  law  yere  an'  'lections ; 
an'  while  at  first  it's  mighty  likely  both  is  goin' 
to  turn  out  disturbin'  elements,  still  I  looks  on 
their  approach  without  fear.  Wolfville  is  too 
strong,  an'  Wolfville  intelligence  is  too  well 
founded,  to  let  any  law  loco  it  or  set  it  to  millin'.' 

" '  Still,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  '  I  must  remark  I 
prefers  a  dooly  authorized  band  of  Stranglers.  A 
vig'lance  committee  gets  my  game  right  along. 
They's  more  honest  than  any  of  these  yere  law- 
sharps  who's  'lected  to  be  a  jedge ;  an'  they's  a 
heap  more  zealous,  which  last  is  important.' 

" '  Boggs  is  right,'  replies  Enright.  '  It  may 
not  become  me,  who  is  head  of  the  local  body  of 
that  sort,  to  make  boasts  of  the  excellence  of  a 
vig'lance  committee  ;  but  I  ain't  bluffin'ona  four- 
flush  when  I  challenges  any  gent  to  put  his 
tongue  to  an  event  where  a  vig'lance  committee 


I2O 


Wolfville. 


stretches  a  party  who  ain't  in  need  tharof ;  or 
which  goes  wastin*  its  lariats  on  the  desert  air. 
I  puts  it  to  you-alls  without  heat  or  pride,  gents  ; 
Jedge  Lynch  is  right  every  time.' 

"'  Put  me  down/  says  Doc  Peets,  at  the  same 
time  makin'  signs  for  the  barkeep  to  remember 
his  mission  on  earth,  '  put  me  down  as  coincidin' 
in  them  sentiments.  An'  I  says  further,  that  any 
party  who's  lookin'  for  the  place  where  the  bad 
man  is  scarce,  an'  a  law-abidin'  gent  has  the  full- 
est liberty,  pegged  out  to  the  shorest  safetytood, 
let  him  locate  where  he  finds  the  most  lynchin's, 
an'  where  a  vig'lance  committee  is  steadily  en- 
gaged discrimi- 
natin'  'round 
through  the 
commu  nity. 
Which  a  camp 
thus  provided  is 
a  model  of  heav- 
enly peace.' 

"'You  can 
gamble,  if  any- 
body's  plumb 
aware  of  these 
yere  trooths,  it's 
me,'  says  Texas 
Thompson. 
'When  I'm 
down  in  the  South  Paloduro  country,  workin'  a 


TEXAS   THOMPSON. 


Texas  Thompson's  "  Election/'  1 2 1 

passel  of  Bar-K-7  cattle,  I  aids  in  an  effort  to  'lect 
a  jedge  an'  institoot  reg'lar  shore-'nough  law  ; 
an'  the  same  comes  mighty  near  leavin'  the 
entire  hamlet  a  howlin'  waste.  It  deciminates 
a  heap  of  our  best  citizens. 

"  '  This  yere  misguided  bluff  comes  to  pass 
peculiar  ;  an'  I  allers  allows  if  it  ain't  for  the  on- 
foreseen  way  wherein  things  stacks  up,  an*  the 
muddle  we-alls  gets  into  tryin'  to  find  a  trail,  the 
Plaza  Paloduro  would  have  been  a  scene  of 
bleatin'  peace  that  day,  instead  of  a  stric'ly 
corpse-an'-cartridge  occasion.  The  death  rate 
rises  to  that  degree  in  fact  that  the  next  round- 
up is  shy  on  men  ;  an'  thar  ain't  enough  cartridges 
in  camp,  when  the  smoke  blows  away,  to  be 
seed  for  a  second  crop.  On  the  squar',  gents, 
that  'lection  day  on  the  South  Paloduro  was 
what  you-alls  might  term  a  massacre,  an'  get  it 
right  every  time.' 

"  *  Well,  what  of  this  yere  toomultuous  'lec- 
tion ? '  demands  Dave  Tutt,  who  gets  impatient 
while  Texas  refreshes  himse'f  in  his  glass.  '  You- 
all  reminds  me  a  mighty  sight,  Texas,  of  the 
Tucson  preacher  who  pulls  his  freight  the  other 
day.  They  puts  it  to  him,  the  Tucson  folks  do, 
that  he  talks  an'  he  talks,  but  he  don't  p'int  out ; 
an'  he  argufies  an'  he  argufies,  but  he  never 
shows  wherein.  A  party  who's  goin'  to  make  a 
pulpit-play,  or  shine  in  Arizona  as  a  racontoor, 
has  done  got  to  cult'vate  a  direct,  incisive  style.' 


122  Wolfville. 

"  '  That's  all  c'rect,'  remarks  Texas,  some  sav- 
age, as  he  recovers  his  nose  outen  his  glass ; 
'  never  you  fret  me  none  about  my  style  not  bein' 
incisive.  Thar  be  other  plays  where  any  gent 
who  comes  puttin'  it  all  over  me  with  roode  an' 
intemp'rate  remarks  will  find  me  plenty  incisive  ; 
not  to  say  some  soon.' 

"  *  Yere  ! '  interrupts  Enright,  quick  an'  sharp. 
'  This  is  plumb  outside  the  line.  Texas  ain't  got 
no  call  to  wake  up  so  malignant  over  what's 
most  likely  nothin'  worse  than  humor  on  Tutt's 
part ;  an',  Tutt,  it  ain't  up  to  you  none  neither, 
to  go  spurrin*  Texas  in  the  shoulder  in  the  midst 
of  what  I'm  yere  to  maintain  is  a  mighty  thrillin' 
narration.' 

" '  Texas  is  good  people,'  says  Dave,  '  an'  the 
last  gent  with  which  I  thirsts  to  dig  up  the 
war-axe.  Which  I'm  proud  to  be  his  friend  ;  an' 
I  means  no  offense  when  I  su'gests  that  he  whirl 
a  smaller  loop  when  he  onbosoms  himse'f  of  a 
tale.  I  yere  tenders  Texas  my  hand,  assurin'  of 
him  that  I  means  my  language  an'  ain't  holdin' 
out  nothin'.  Shake  ! '  An'  at  this  Dave  reaches 
his  pistol-hand  to  Texas  Thompson,  an*  the  same 
is  seized  prompt  an'  friendly. 

"'This  yere  is  my  fault,'  says  Texas.  'I 
reckons  now  my  wife  recoverin'  that  Laredo 
divorce  I'm  mentionin'  to  you-alls,  sorter  leaves 
me  a  heap  petulant,  that  a-way.  But  to  go  back 
to  this  war-jig  I  was  relatin'  about  down  at  Plaza 
Paloduro. 


Texas  Thompson's  "  Election."  123 

"  '  It's  this  a-way  :  No,  Nellie ;  thar's  no  female 
in  it.  This  yere  grows  from  a  business  transac- 
tion ;  an'  the  effort  tharfrom  to  improve  on 
present  conditions,  institoot  a  reign  of  law,  an' 
'lect  a  jedge. 

" '  Which  the  comin'  of  a  miscreant  named 
Cimmaron  Pete,  from  some'ers  over  near  the 
'Doby  Walls,  is  the  beginnin'  of  the  deal.  This 
Cimmaron  Pete  comes  trailin'  in  one  day ;  an*  a 
shorthorn  called  Glidden,  who  runs  a  store  at  the 
ford,  comes  ropin'  at  Cimmaron  Pete  to  race 
ponies. 

"  * "  What  for  stakes  do  you-all  aim  to  race 
for?"  demands  this  Cimmaron  Pete. 

"  * "  I'll  run  you  for  hoss  an'  saddle,"  says 
Glidden. 

"  '  "  Say  hoss  ag'in  hoss,"  says  Cimmaron  Pete, 
"  an*  I'm  liable  to  go  you.  Saddles  is  hard  to 
get,  an*  I  won't  resk  mine.  Ponies,  however,  is 
easy.  I  can  get  'em  every  moonlight  night." 

"'When  them  sports  is  racin', — which  the  run 
is  to  be  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  only  they  never  fin- 
ishes,— jest  as  Cimmaron  begins  to  pull  ahead, 
his  pony  bein*  a  shade  suddener  than  Glidden's, 
whatever  does  the  latter  do  but  rope  this  Cim- 
maron Pete's  pony  by  the  feet  an'  down  him. 

" '  It's  shore  fine  work  with  a  lariat,  but  it 
comes  high  for  Glidden.  For,  as  he  stampedes 
by,  this  Cimmaron  turns  loose  his  six-shooter 
from  where  he's  tangled  up  with  his  bronco  on 


i24  Wolfville. 

the  ground  ;  an'  as  the  first  bullet  gets  Glidden 
in  the  back  of  his  head,  his  light  goes  out  like  a 
candle. 

" '  When  the  committee  looks  into  the  play 
they  jestifies  this  Cimmaron.  "  While  on  the 
surface,"  they  says,  "  the  deal  seems  a  little 
florid ;  still,  when  a  gent  armed  with  nothin'  but 
a  cold  sense  of  jestice  comes  to  pirootin'  plumb 
through  the  affair  with  a  lantern,  he's  due  to 
emerge  a  lot  with  the  conviction  that  Glidden's 
wrong."  So  Cimmaron  is  free  in  a  minute. 

"  *  Butthar's  Glidden's  store  !  Thar's  nobody 
to  claim  it ;  thar  bein'  no  fam'ly  to  Glidden  no- 
how ;  not  even  a  hired  man. 

"*"  Which,  as  it  seems  to  be  a  case  open  to 
doubt,"  observes  this  yere  Cimmaron,  "  I  nach- 
erally  takes  this  Glidden  party's  store  an*  deals 
his  game  myse'f." 

'"It  ain't  much  of  a  store;  an' bein'  as  the 
rest  of  us  is  havin'  all  we-alls  can  ride  herd  on 
for  ourse'fs,  no  gent  makes  objections,  an'  Cim- 
maron turns  himse'f  loose  in  Glidden's  store,  an' 
begins  to  sell  things  a  whole  lot.  He's  shorely 
doin'  well,  I  reckons,  when  mebby  it's  a  week 
later  he  comes  chargin'  over  to  a  passel  of  us  an* 
allows  he  wants  the  committee  to  settle  some 
trouble  which  has  cut  his  trail. 

"  *  "  It's  about  the  debts  of  this  yere  Glidden, 
deceased,"  says  Cimmaron.  "  I  succeeds  to  the 
business  of  course  ;  which  it's  little  enough  for 


Texas  Thompson's  "  Election."  125 

departed  ropin'  my  pony  that  time.  But  you- 
alls  can  gamble  I  ain't  goin'  'way  back  on  this 
yere  dead  person's  trail,  an'  settle  all  his  gray 
an'  hoary  indebtnesses.  Would  it  be  right, 
gents?  I  puts  it  to  you-alls  on  the  squar'  ;  do  I 
immerse  myse'f,  I'd  like  for  to  be  told,  in 
deceased's  liabilities  merely  for  resentin'  of  his 
wrongs  ag'in  me  with  my  gun  ?  If  a  gent  can 
go  blindly  shootin'  himse'f  into  bankruptcy  that 
a-way,  the  American  gov'ment  is  a  rank  loser^ 
an'  the  State  of  Texas  is  plumb  played  out." 

"  *  When  we-alls  proceeds  to  ferret  into  this 
yere  myst'ry,  we  finds  thar's  a  sharp  come  up 
from  Dallas  who  claims  that  Cimmaron's  got  to 
pay  him  what  Glidden  owes.  This  yere  Dallas 
party  puts  said  indebtednesses  at  five  stacks  of 
blues. 

"  '  "  An'  this  yere  longhorn's  got  'em  to  make 
good,"  says  the  Dallas  sharp,  p'intin'  at  Cim- 
maron,  "  'cause  he  inherits  the  store." 

"  4  "  Now,  whatever  do  you-alls  think  of  that  ?  " 
says  Cimmaron,  appealin'  to  us.  "Yere  I've 
told  this  perverse  sport  that  Glidden's  done 
cashed  in  an'  quit ;  an'  now  he  lays  for  me  with 
them  indebtednesses.  It  shorely  wearies  me." 

" '  It  don't  take  the  vig'lance  committee  no 
time  to  agree  it  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  in  the 
case. 

'"'"It's  only  on  killin's,  an' hoss-rustlin's,  an' 
sim'lar    breaks,"    explains    Old    Monroe,    who's 


126  Wolfville. 

chief  of  the  Paloduro  Stranglers,  "  where  we-alls 
gets  kyards.  We  ain't  in  on  what's  a  mere  open- 
an'-shet  case  of  debt." 

"  '  But  this  Dallas  sharp  stays  right  with  Cim- 
maron.  He  gives  it  out  cold  he's  gain'  to  c'lect. 
He  puts  it  up  he'll  shore  sue  Cimmaron  a  lot. 

"'You-alls  don't  mean  to  say  triar  ain't  no 
jedge  yere  ? "  remarks  the  Dallas  sharp,  when 
Old  Monroe  explains  we  ain't  organized  none  for 
sech  games  as  law  cases.  "  Well,  this  yere  Plaza 
Paloduro  is  for  certain  the  locodest  camp  of 
which  I  ever  cuts  the  trail !  You-alls  better  get 
a  hustle  on  right  now  an'  'lect  a  jedge.  If  I  goes 
back  to  Dallas  an'  tells  this  story  of  how  you-alls 
ain't  got  no  jedge  nor  no  law  yere,  they  won't  let 
this  Plaza  Paloduro  get  close  enough  to  'em  in  busi- 
ness to  hand  'em  a  ripe  peach.  If  thar's  enough 
sense  in  this  camp  to  make  bakin'-powder  biscuit, 
you-alls  will  have  a  jedge  'lected  ready  for  me  to 
have  law  cases  with  by  second-drink  time  to-mor- 
row mornin'." 

"  '  After  hangin'  up  this  bluff  the  Dallas  sharp, 
puttin'  on  a  heap  of  hawtoor  an'  dog,  walks  over 
to  the  tavern  ag'in,  an'  leaves  us  to  size  up  the 
play  at  our  leesure. 

« '  « What  this  obdurate  party  from  Dallas 
says,"  finally  remarks  Old  Monroe,  "  is  not  with- 
out what  the  Comanches  calls  turn-turn.  Thar's 
savey  an'  jestice  in  them  observations.  It's  my 
idee,  that  thar  bein'  no  jedge  yere,  that  a-way,  to 


Texas  Thompson's  "  Election*"  127 

make  a  money  round-up  for  a  gent  when  his 
debtor  don't  make  good,  is  mighty  likely  a  palin' 
often  our  fence.  I  shorely  thinks  we  better  rec- 
tify them  omissions  an'  'lect  a  jedge  at  once." 

"  *  "  Which  I'm  opposed  to  these  proceeding," 
interrupts  Cimmaron.  "  I'm  plumb  adverse  to 
co'ts.  Them  law-wolves  gets  into  'em,  an'  when 
they  can't  find  no  gate  to  come  at  you,  they  ups 
an'  pushes  down  a  panel  of  fence,  an'  lays  for 
you,  cross-lots.  I'm  dead  ag'in  these  proceeding." 

"'"See  yere,"  says  Old  Monroe,  turnin'  on 
this  Cimmaron,  "  you-all  is  becomin'  too  appar- 
ent in  this  camp  ;  what  I  might  describe  as  a 
heap  too  obvious.  Now  if  you  gets  your  stack  in 
ag'in  when  it  ain't  your  turn ;  or  picks  up  any- 
body's hand  but  your  own,  I'll  find  a  short  way 
of  knockin'  your  horns  off.  You  don't  seem 
gifted  enough  to  realize  that  you're  lucky  to  be 
alive  right  now." 

"  *  Bar  Cimmaron,  who  lapses  into  silence  after 
Old  Monroe  gives  him  notice,  the  entire  camp 
lines  up  fav'rable  on  the  idee  to  'lect  a  jedge. 
They  sends  over  to  the  corral  an'  gets  a  nose-bag 
for  to  deposit  the  votes  ;  an'  it's  decided  that  Old 
Monroe  an'  a  Cross-Z  party  named  Randall  has 
got  to  do  the  runnin'.  Randall  is  plenty  p'lite, 
an'  allows  he  don't  want  to  be  jedge  none  nohow, 
an'  says,  give  it  to  Old  Monroe  ;  but  the  latter 
gent,  who  is  organizin'  the  play,  insists  that  it 
wouldn't  be  legal. 


128  Wolfville. 

"'"Thar's  got  to  be  two  gents  to  do  the 
runnin',"  so  Old  Monroe  says,  "  or  it  don't  go. 
The  'lection  ain't  legal  that  a-way  onless  thar's 
two  candidates." 

"  •  They  puts  Bronco  Charlie  an'  a  sport  named 
Ormsby  in  to  be  'lection  supervisors.  They  was 
to  hold  the  nose-bag ;  an'  as  votes  is  dropped  in, 
they's  to  count  'em  out  accordin'  to  Hoyle,  so 
we-alls  can  tell  where  the  play's  headin'.  Bronco 
Charlie  is  jedge  for  Randall,  an'  Ormsby  fronts 
up  all  sim'lar  for  Old  Monroe.  The  'lection  we- 
alls  decides  to  hold  in  the  Lone  Star  Saloon,  so's 
to  be  conducted  with  comfort. 

" '  "  Make  your  game,  now,  gents,"  says  Old 
Monroe,  when  everythin'  is  shorely  ready.  "  Get 
in  your  votes.  These  yere  polls  is  open  for  one 
hour." 

"  ' "  One  for  Randall,"  says  Bronco  Charlie  as 
Old  Monroe  votes. 

"  *  "  An'  one  for  Old  Monroe,"  remarks  Ormsby 
when  Randall  votes  next. 

"  '  This  gives  the  deal  tone  to  have  Randall  an' 
Old  Monroe  p'int  out  by  votin'  for  each  other 
that  a-way,  and  thar  ain't  one  of  us  who  don't 
feel  more  respectable  by  it. 

" '  It's  the  opinion  of  level-headed  gents  even 
yet,  that  the  Plaza  Paloduro  could  have  pulled  off 
this  'lection  an'  got  plumb  away,  an*  never  had 
no  friction,  if  it  ain't  for  a  Greaser  from  San 
Antonio  who  tries  to  ring  in  on  us.  Thar's 


Texas  Thompson's  "  Election,"  129 

twenty-one  of  us  has  voted,  an'  it  stands  nine  for 
Randall  an'  twelve  for  Old  Monroe  ;  when  up  lopes 
this  yere  Mexican  an'  allows  he's  locoed  to  vote. 

"  '  "  Who  do  you-all  think  you're  goin'  to  vote 
for?  "  asks  Ormsby. 

"  '  "  Senor  Monroe,"  says  the  Mexican,  p'intin' 
at  Old  Monroe. 

"  '  "  Stop  this  deal,"  yells  Bronco  Charlie,  "  I 
challenges  that  vote.  Mexicans  is  barred." 

"  ' "  Which  Mexicans  is  not  barred,"  replies 
Ormsby.  "  An'  the  vote  of  this  yere  enlightened 
maverick  from  south  of  the  Rio  Grande  goes. 
Thirteen  for  Old  Monroe." 

"'"Twelve  for  Old  Monroe,"  remonstrates- 
Bronco  Charlie,  feelin'  for  his  gun. 

"  '  "  Thirteen  for  Old  Monroe,"  retorts  Ormsby, 
as  his  Colt's  comes  into  action  an'  he  busts 
Bronco's  arm  at  the  elbow. 

"  ' "  As  his  obstinacy  has  destroyed  the  further 
efficiency  of  my  colleague,"  goes  on  Ormsby,  as 
he  shakes  down  the  ballots  in  the  nose-bag,  "  I'll 
now  conduct  these  yere  polls  alone.  Gents  who 
haven't  voted  will  please  come  a-runnin'.  As  I 
states  a  moment  ago,  she  stands  thirteen  for  Old 
Monroe." 

"  '"  An'  I  says  she's  twelve  for  Old  Monroe," 
shouts  Red  River  Tom,  crowdin'  for'ard.  "  You- 
all  can't  ring  in  Mexicans  an'  snake  no  play  on 
us.  This  yere  'lection's  goin'  to  be  on  the  squar', 
or  it's  goin'  to  come  off  in  the  smoke."" 


130  Wolfvilte. 

" '  With  this,  Red  River,  who's  been  sorter 
domineerin'  at  Ormsby  with  his  six-shooter  while 
he's  freein'  his  mind,  slams  her  loose.  Red  River 
over-shoots,  an'  Ormsby  downs  him  with  a  bullet 
in  his  laig. 

"  '  "  Thirteen  for  Old  Monroe,"  says  Ormsby. 

"  *  But  that's  where  the  'lection  ends.  Fol- 
lowin'  the  subsidence  of  Red  River  Tom,  the  air 
is  as  full  of  lead  as  a  bag  of  bullets.  Through 
the  smoke,  an'  the  flashes,  an'  the  noise,  you  can 
hear  Ormsby  whoopin' : 

"  '  "  Thirteen  for  Old  Monroe." 

"  '  You  can  gamble  Ormsby's  as  squar'  a  'lec- 
tion jedge  as  any  gent  could  ask.  You  gets  a 
play  for  your  money  with  Ormsby  ;  but  he  dies 
the  next  day,  so  he  never  is  'lection  jedge  no 
more.  Five  gents  gets  downed,  an'  a  whole  cor- 
ralfull  is  hurt.  I,  myse'f,  reaps  some  lead  in  the 
shoulder ;  an'  even  at  that  I  never  goes  nearer 
than  the  suburbs  of  the  fight. 

" '  No  ;  Cimmaron  Pete  claws  off  all  sound,  an* 
no  new  holes  in  him.  But  as  the  Dallas  party, 
who  comes  caperin'  over  with  the.  first  shot,  is 
layin'  at  the  windup  outside  the  Lone  Star  door, 
plumb  defunct,  thar's  an  end  to  the  root  of  the 
disorder. 

"  *  The  'lection  itse'f  is  looked  on  as  a  draw. 
Old  Monroe  allows  that,  all  things  considered,  he 
don't  regard  himse'f  as  'lected  none  ;  and  Randall, 
who  a  doctor  is  feelin'  'round  in  for  a  bullet  at 


Texas  Thompson's  "  Election.*  131 

the  time,  sends  over  word  that  he  indorses  Old 
Monroe's  p'sition  ;  an'  that  as  long  as  the  Dallas 
sharp  hits  the  trail  after  Glidden,  an'  is  tharby 
able  to  look  after  his  debts  himse'f,  he,  Randall, 
holds  it's  no  use  disturbin*  of  a  returned  sereenity, 
an'  to  let  everythin'  go  as  it  lays. 

"'An'  that,'  concloods  Texas  Thompson,  as 
he  reaches  for  his  licker,  *  is  what  comes  of  an 
effort  at  law  an'  order  in  Plaza  Paloduro.  I  ain't 
over-statin'  it,  gents,  when  I  says,  that  that  'lec- 
tion leaves  me  plumb  gun-shy  for  over  a  year.'  ' 


CHAPTER  XL 
A  Wolfville  Foundling. 

"  DOES  Jack  Moore  have  sand  ?  Son,  is  this 
yere  query  meant  for  humor  by  you?  Which 
for  mere  sand  the  Mohave  desert  is  a  fool  to 
Jack." 

The  Old  Cattleman's  face  was  full  of  an 
earnest,  fine  sincerity.  It  was  plain,  too,  that 
my  question  nettled  the  old  fellow  a  bit ;  as 
might  a  doubt  cast  at  an  idol.  But  the  sharp- 
ness had  passed  from  his  tone  when  he  resumed  : 

"  Not  only  is  Jack  long  on  sand  that  a-way, 
but  he's  plumb  loaded  with  what  you-alls  calls 
'nitiative.  Leastwise  that's  what  one  of  these 
yere  fernologists  allows,  who  straggles  into  camp 
an'  goes  to  thumbin'  our  bumps  one  day. 

"  '  Which  this  young  person,'  says  the  bump- 
sharp,  while  his  fingers  is  caperin*  about  on  Jack's 
head,  *  is  remarkable  for  his  'nitiative.  He's  the 
sort  of  gent  who  builds  his  fire  before  he  gets  his 
wood ;  an'  issues  more  invites  to  drink  than  he 
receives.  Which  his  weakness,  speakin'  general, 
is  he  overplays.' 

"  Which  this  yere  bump  party  might  have  gone 


A  Wolfville  Foundling.  133 

wrong  in  his  wagers  a  heap  of  times ;  but  he 
shorely  calls  the  turn  on  Jack  when  he  says  he's 
some  strong  on  'nitiative. 

"  An'  it's  this  yere  proneness  for  the  prematoor, 
an'  nacheral  willin'ness  to  open  any  pot  that 
a-way,  that  makes  Jack  sech  a  slam-up  offishul. 
Bein'  full  of  'nitiative,  like  this  fernologist  states, 
Jack  don't  idle  along  ontil  somethin's  hap- 
pened. Not  much  ;  he  abates  it  in  the  bud. 

'*  Once  when  most  of  the  outfit's  over  in  Tuc- 
son, an'  Jack  is  sorter  holdin'  down  the  camp 
alone,  a  band  of  rustlers  comes  trackin'  in, 
allowin'  they'll  run  Wolfville  some.  Which,  that's 
where  Jack's  'nitiative  shows  up  big.  He  goes 
after  'em  readily,  like  they's  antelope.  Them 
hold-ups  is  a  long  majority  over  Jack,  an* 
heeled  ;  but  t'hat  Jack  stands  thar — right  up 
ag'in  the  iron — an'  he  tells  'em  what  he  thinks 
an'  why  he  thinks  it  for ;  makes  his  minority  re- 
port onto  'em  all  free,  like  he  outnumbers  'em 
two  to  one  ;  an'  winds  up  by  backin'  the  game 
with  his  gun  in  a  way  that  commands  confidence. 

"  '  You-alls  hears  my  remarks,'  he  says  at  the 
close,  briefly  flashin'  his  six-shooters  on  the  out- 
fit ;  '  thar  ain't  no  band  of  bad  men  in  Arizona 
can  tree  this  town  an'  me  informed.  Now  go 
slow,  or  I'll  jest  stretch  a  few  of  you  for  luck. 
It's  sech  consoomin'  toil,  a-diggin'  of  sepulchers 
in  this  yere  rock-ribbed  landscape,  or  I'd  do  it 
anyhow.' 


134  Wolfville. 

"  An'  tharupon  them  rustlers,  notin'  Jack's  got 
the  drop  on  'em,  kicks  up  a  dense  cloud  of  dust 
an'  is  seen  no  more. 

"  But  bein'  replete  with  sand  an'  'nitiative,  that 
a-way,  don't  state  all  thar  is  good  of  Jack.  Let 
any  pore,  he'pless  party  cut  Jack's  trail,  an'  he's 
plumb  tender.  On  sech  times  Jack's  a  dove ; 
leastwise  he's  a  dove  a  whole  lot. 

"  One  hot  afternoon,  Enright  an'  Doc  Peets  is 
away  about  some  cattle  I  reckons.  Which  the 
rest  of  us  is  noomerous  enough  ;  an'  we're  sorter 
revolvin'  'round  the  post-office,  a-waitin'  for  Old 
Monte  an'  the  stage.  Yere  she  comes,  final, 
a-rattlin'  an'  a-creakin' ;  that  old  drunkard  Monte 
a-poppin'  of  his  whip,  the  six  hosses  on  the  can- 
ter, an'  the  whole  sheebang  puttin'  on  more  dog 
than  a  Mexican  officer  of  revenoo.  When  the 
stage  draws  up,  Old  Monte  throws  off  the  mail- 
bags  an'  the  Wells-Fargo  box,  an'  gets  down  an' 
opens  the  door.  But  nobody  emerges  out. 

"  *  Well,  I'm  a  coyote  !  '  says  Monte,  a  heap 
disgusted,  '  wherever  is  the  female  ?  ' 

"  Then  we-alls  peers  into  the  stage  an'  thar's 
only  a  baby,  with  mebby  a  ten-months'  start 
down  this  vale  of  tears,  inside  ;  an'  no  mother  nor 
nothin'  along.  Jack  Moore,  jest  as  I  says  when  I 
begins,  reaches  in  an'  gets  him.  The  baby  ain't 
sayin'  nothin' ,  an'  sorter  takes  it  out  in  smilin' 
on  Jack  ;  which  last  pleases  him  excessive. 

"  '  He  knows  me  for  a  hundred  dollars! '  says 


OLD  MONTE. — Page  135. 


A  Wolfville  Foundling*  135 

Jack.  *  I'm  an  Apache  if  he  ain't  allowin'  he 
knows  me  !  Wherever  did  you  get  him,  Monte  ?  ' 

" '  Give  me  a  drink,'  says  Monte,  p'intin'  along 
into  the  Red  Light.  *  This  yere  makes  me  sick.' 

"  After  Old  Monte  gets  about  four  fingers  of 
carnation  onder  his  belt,  he  turns  in  an*  explains 
as  how  the  mother  starts  along  in  the  stage  all 
right  enough  from  Tucson.  The  last  time  he 
sees  her,  so  he  puts  it  up,  is  at  the  last  station 
back  some  twenty  miles  in  the  hills  ;  an'  he  s'poses 
all  the  time  later,  she's  inside  ridin'  herd  on  her 
progeny,  ontil  now. 

"  *  I  don't  reckon,'  says  Old  Monte,  lookin' 
gloomy-like  at  the  infant,  '  that  lady  is  aimin'  to 
saw  this  yere  young-one  onto  the  stage  company 
none  ? ' 

"  '  Don't  upset  your  whiskey  frettin'  about  the 
company,'  says  Jack,  a-plantin'  of  the  infant  on 
the  bar,  while  we-alls  crowds  in  for  a  look  at  him. 
'  The  camp'll  play  this  hand  ;  an'  the  company 
ain't  goin'  to  be  in  it  a  little  bit.' 

" '  I  wish  Enright  an'  Peets  was  yere,'  says 
Cherokee  Hall,  '  to  be  heard  hereon  ;  which  I 
shore  deems  this  a  grave  occasion.  Yere  we-alls 
finds  ourse'fs  possessed  of  an  onexpected  child  of 
tender  years  ;  an'  the  question  nacheral  enough  is, 
whatever*  11  we  do  with  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Let's  maverick  it,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  who's  a 
mighty  good  man,  but  onthinkful  that  a-way. 

"  '  No,'  says  Cherokee  ; '  its  mother'll  come  hop- 


136  Wolfville. 

pin'  along  to-morrow,  a-yellin'.  This  yere  sot 
Monte  has  jest  done  drove  off  an'  left  her  some- 
'ers  up  the  trail ;  she'll  come  romancin'  along  in 
time.' 

"  '  Meanwhile,'  says  Jack, l  the  infant's  got  to  be 
took  care  of,  to  which  dooty  I  volunteers.  Thar's 
a  tenderfoot  a-sleepin'  in  the  room  back  of  the 
dance-hall,  an'  he's  that  'feminate  an'  effect,  he's 
got  a  shore-'nough  bed  an'  some  goose-ha'r 
pillers;  which  the  same  I  do  yereby  confiscate  to 
public  use  to  take  care  of  this  yearlin'.  Is  the 
sentiment  pleasin'  ?  ' 

"  '  Jack's  scheme  is  right,'  says  Boggs ;  '  an'  I'm 
present  to  announce  he's  allers  right.  Let  the 
shorthorn  go  sleep  onder  a  mesquite-bush  ;  it'll 
do  him  good  a  whole  lot/ 

" '  I'm  some  doobersome  of  this  play,'  says 
Cherokee.  '  Small  infants  is  mighty  myster'ous 
people,  an'  no  livin'  gent  is  ever  onto  their  game 
an'  able  to  foresee  their  needs.  Do  you-all  reckon 
now  you  can  take  care  of  this  yere  young-one, 
Jack  ?  Be  you  equal  to  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Take  care  of  a  small  baby  like  this,'  says 
Jack,  plenty  scornful  ;  *  which  the  same  ain't 
weighin'  twenty  pounds?  Well,  it'll  be  some 
funny  if  I  can't.  I  could  break  even  with  him  if 
he's  four  times  as  big.  All  I  asks  is  for  you-alls 
to  stand  by  in  crisises  an'  back  the  play ;  an',  that 
settled,  you  can  go  make  side  bets  we-alls  comes 
out  winners  on  the  deal.' 


A  Wolfville  Foundling:.  137 

"  '  I  ain't  abso.lootly  shore,'  says  Dave  Tutt, 
'  bein*  some  shy  of  practice  with  infants  myse'f, 
but  jedgm'  by  his  lookin'  smooth  an'  silky,  I 
offers  fifty  dollars  even  he  ain't  weaned  none 
yet.' 

"  *  I  won't  bet  none  on  his  bein'  weaned  com- 
plete,' says  Jack,  *  but  I'll  hang  up  fifty  he  drinks 
outen  a  bottle  as  easy  as  Old  Monte.' 

"  '  I'll  go  you  once,'  says  Tutt ;  '  it's  fifty  dol- 
lars even  he  grows  contemptuous  at  a  bottle,  an' 
disdains  it.' 

"  Which  we-alls  talks  it  over  an'  decides  that 
Jack's  to  nurse  said  infant ;  after  which  a  passel 
of  us  proceeds  to  make  a  procession  for  the 
tenderfoot's  bed,  which  he  shorely  resigns  with- 
out a  struggle.  We  packs  it  back  to  Jack  ;  an' 
Cherokee  Hall  an'  Boggs  then  goes  over  to  the 
corral  an'  lays  for  a  goat  to  milk  her.  This  yere 
goat  is  mighty  reluctant,  an*  refuses  to  enter  into 
the  sperit  of  the  thing;  but  they  swings  an* 
rastles  with  her,  makes  their  p'int  right  along,  an* 
after  a  frightful  time  comes  back  with  'most  a 
dipper-full. 

"  '  That's  all  right,'  says  Jack,  who's  done 
camped  in  a  room  back  of  the  Red  Light,  '  now 
hop  out  an'  tell  the  barkeep  to  give  you  a  pint 
bottle.  We-alls  has  this  yere  game  payin'  div'- 
dends  in  two  minutes.' 

"Jack  gets  his  bottle  an'  fills  her  up  with 
goat's  milk  ;  an'  makes  a  stopper  outen  cotton 


138  Wolfville. 

cloth  an'  molasses  for  the  infant  to  draw  it 
througH.  Which  it's  about  this  time  the  infant 
puts  up  a  yell,  an*  refuses  peace  ag'in  till  Jack 
gives  him  his  six-shooter  to  play  with. 

"  '  Which  shows  my  confidence  in  him/  says 
Jack.  'Thar's  only  a  few  folks  left  I'll  pass  my 
gun  to.' 

"  Jack  gets  along  with  him  first-rate,  a-feedin' 
of  him  the  goat's  milk,  which  he  goes  for  with 
avidity  ;  tharby  nettin'  Jack  that  fifty  from  Dave 
Tutt.  Boggs  builds  a  fire  so  Jack  keeps  the 
milk  warm.  Jack  turns  loose  that  earnest  he 
don't  even  go  for  no  grub  ;  jest  nacherally  has 
'em  pack  it  to  him. 

"  '  We-alls'll  have  to  stand  night  gyards  on  this 
yere  foundlin'  to-night,  I  reckons  ? "  asks  Boggs 
of  Jack,  when  he's  bringin'  Jack  things. 

"'Is'pose  most  likely  we'll  have  to  make  a 
play  that  a-way,'  says  Jack. 

"'  All  right,'  says  Boggs,  tappin'  his  shirt  with 
his  pistol-finger  ;  *  you-all  knows  me  an'  Cherokee. 
We're  in  on  this  yere  any  time  you  says.' 

"  So  a  band  of  us  sorter  camps  along  with 
Jack  an'  the  infant  ontil  mebby  it's  second-drink 
time  at  night.  The  infant  don't  raise  the  war- 
yell  once  ;  jest  takes  it  out  in  goat's  milk ;  an'  in 
laughin',  an'  playin'  with  Jack's  gun. 

" '  Excuse  me,  gents,'  finally  says  Jack,  mighty 
dignified,  4  but  I've  been  figgerin'  this  thing,  an' 
I  allows  it's  time  to  bed  this  yere  young-one 


A  Wolfville  Foundling*  139 

down  for  the  night.  If  you-alls  will  withdraw 
some,  I'll  see  how  near  I  comes  to  makin'  runnin' 
of  it.  Stay  within  whoopin'  distance,  though  ; 
so  if  he  tries  to  stampede  or  takes  to  millin'  I 
can  get  he'p.' 

"  We-alls  lines  out  an'  leaves  Jack  an'  the 
infant,  an'  turns  in  on  faro  an'  poker  an'  sim'lar 
devices  which  is  bein'  waged  in  the  Red  Light. 
Mebby  it's  an  hour  when  Jack  comes  in. 

"'Boggs,'  he  says;  *  s'pose  you-all  sets  in  an' 
plays  my  hand  a  minute  with  that  infant  child, 
while  I  goes  over  an'  adjourns  them  frivolities 
in  the  dance-hall.  It  looks  like  this  yere  camp 
is  speshul  toomultuous  to-night.' 

"  Boggs  goes  in  with  the  infant,  an'  Jack  pro- 
ceeds to  the  baile  house  an'  states  the  case. 

" '  I  don't  want  to  onsettle  the  reg'lar  pro- 
gramme,' says  Jack,  '  but  this  yere  young-one 
I'm  responsible  for,  gets  that  engaged  in  the 
sounds  of  these  yere  revels,  it  don't  look  like  he's 
goin'  to  sleep  none.  So  if  you-alls  will  call  the 
last  waltz,  an'  wind  her  up  for  to-night,  it'll 
shorely  be  a  he'p.  The  kid's  mother'll  be  yere 
by  sun-up ;  which  her  advent  that  a-way  alters 
the  play  all  'round,  an'  matters  then  goes  back 
to  old  lines.' 

"  '  Enough  said,'  says  Jim  Hamilton,  who  runs 
the  dance-hall.  '  You  can  gamble  this  temple  of 
mirth  ain't  layin'  down  on  what's  right,  an'  to- 
night's shindig  closes  right  yere.  All  promenade 


140  Wblfville. 

to  the  bar.  We  takes  a  drink  on  the  house, 
quits,  an'  calls  it  a  day.' 

"Then  Jack  comes  back,  a  heap  grave  with  his 
cares,  an'  relieves  Boggs  ;  who's  on  watch,  strad- 
dled of  a  chair,  a-eyein*  of  the  infant,  who, 
a-settin'  up  ag'in  a  goose-ha'r  piller,  is  likewise 
a-eyein'  of  Boggs. 

11 '  He's  a  'way  up  good  infant,  Jack,'  says 
Boggs,  givin'  up  his  seat. 

" '  You  can  bet  your  life  he's  a  good  infant,' 
says  Jack ;  *  but  it  shore  looks  like  he  don't  aim 
to  turn  in  an'  slumber  none.  Mebby  the  goat's 
milk  is  too  invigeratin'  for  him,  an'  keeps  him 
awake  that  a-way.' 

"  About  another  hour  goes  by,  an'  out  comes 
Jack  into  the  Red  Light  ag'in. 

" '  I  ain't  aimin'  to  disturb  you-alls  none,'  he 
says,  'but,  gents,  if  you-alls  could  close  these 
games  yere,  an'  shet  up  the  store,  I'll  take  it  as  a 
personal  favor.  He  can  hear  the  click  of  the 
chips,  an'  it's  too  many  for  him.  Don't  go 
away  ;  jest  close  up  an*  sorter  camp  'round  quiet.' 

"  Which  we-alls  does  as  Jack  says ;  -closes  the 
games,  an'  then  sets  'round  in  our  chairs  an' 
keeps  quiet,  a-waitin'  for  the  infant  to  turn  in. 
A  half-hour  later  Jack  appears  ag'in. 

"  '  It  ain't  no  use,  gents,'  he  says,  goin'  back  of 
the  bar  an'  gettin'  a  big  drink  ;  *  that  child  is  onto 
us.  He  won't  have  it.  You  can  gamble,  he's 
fixed  it  up  with  himse'f  that  he  ain't  goin'  to 


A  Wolfville  Foundling.  141 

sleep  none  to-night.  I  allows  it's  'cause  he's 
among  rank  strangers,  an*  he  riggers  it's  a  good 
safe  play  to  lookout  his  game  for  himse'f.' 

"  *  I  wonder  couldn't  we  sing  him  to  sleep,' 
says  Cherokee  Hall. 

"  '  Nothin'  ag'in  a  try,'  says  Jack,  some  desp'rate, 
wipin'  his  lips  after  the  drink. 

" '  S'pose  we-alls  gives  him  "  The  Dyin' 
Ranger"  an'  "Sandy  Land  "  for  an  hour  or  so, 
an*  see,'  says  Boggs. 

"  In  we  trails.  Cherokee  lines  up  on  one 
side  of  the  infant,  an'  Jack  on  t'other ;  an' 
the  rest  of  us  takes  chairs  an'  camps  'round. 
We  starts  in  an'  shore  sings  him  all  we  knows ; 
an'  we  keeps  it  up  for  hours.  All  the  time,  that 
child  is  a-settin'  thar,  a-battin'  his  eyes  an'  a-star- 
in',  sleepless  as  owls.  The  last  I  remembers 
is  Boggs's  voice  on  'Sandy  Land  ' : 

" '  Great  big  taters  on  sandy  land, 
Get  thar,  Eli,  if  you  can.' 

"  The  next  thing  I'm  aware  of,  thar's  a  whoop 
an'  a  yell  outside.  We-alls  wakes  up — all  except 
the  infant,  who's  wide  awake  all  along — an'  yere 
it  is  ;  four  o'clock  in  the  mornin',  an'  the  mother 
has  come.  Comes  over  on  a  speshul  buckboard 
from  the  station  where  that  old  inebriate,  Monte, 
drove  off  an'  left  her.  Well,  son,  everybody's 
plumb  willin'  an'  glad  to  see  her.  An'  for  that 
matter,  splittin'  even,  so's  the  infant." 


CHAPTER  XH. 
The  Man  from  Yellowhouse. 

"  THAT'S  straight,  son  ;  you  shorely  should  have 
seen  Jack  Moore,"  continued  the  Old  Cattleman, 
after  a  brief  pause,  as  he  hitched  his  chair  into  a 
comfortable  position ;  "  not  seein'  Jack  is  what 
any  gent  might  call  deeprivation. 

"Back  in  the  old  days,"  he  went  on,  "Jack 
Moore,  as  I  relates,  is  kettle-tender  an'  does  the 
rope  work  of  the  Stranglers.  Whatever  is  the 
Stranglers?  Which  you  asks  some  late.  I  men- 
tions this  assembly  a  heap  frequent  yeretofore. 
Well,  some  folks  calls  'em  the  '  vig'lance  com- 
mittee ' ;  but  that's  long  for  a  name,  so  in  Wolf- 
ville  we  allers  allooded  to  'em  as  'Stranglers.' 
This  yere  is  brief,  an'  likewise  sheds  some 
light. 

"  This  Jack  Moore — which  I'm  proud  to  say 
he's  my  friend — I  reckons  is  the  most  pro  bono 
publico  gent  in  the  Southwest.  He's  out  to  do 
anythin'  from  fight  to  fiddle  at  a  dance,  so's  it's  a 
public  play. 

"  An'  then  his  idees  about  his  dooties  is  wide. 
He  jest  scouts  far  an'  near,  an'  don't  pay  no 


The  Man  from  Yellowhouse*  143 

more  heed  to  distance  an'  fatigue  than  a  steer 
does  to  cobwebs. 

"  '  A  offishul,"  says  Jack,  '  who  don't  diffuse 
himse'f  'round  none,  an'  confines  his  endeavors  to 
his  own  bailiwick,  is  reestricted  an'  oneffectooal, 
an'  couldn't  keep  down  crime  in  a  village  of 
prairie-dogs.'  An'  then  he'd  cinch  on  his  saddle, 
an'  mebby  go  curvin'  off  as  far  north  as  the  Flint 
Hills,  or  east  to  the  Turkey-track. 

"  That's  right  ;  when  it  comes  to  bein'  active, 
Jack  is  what  you  might  call  an  all-round  seelec- 
tion.  An'  clean  strain?  Game  as  hornets. 
Never  knowed  him  to  quit  anythin'  in  his  life — 
not  even  whiskey.  I  says  to  him  myse'f  one  time  : 
*  Jack ;  whyever  don't  you  renig  on  whiskey  ? 
Looks  like  it's  sorter  gettin*  behind  you  some, 
ain't  it  ?  Some  day  mebby  it  outholds  you  when 
you  can't  stand  to  lose.' 

"'Sometimes  I  thinks  I'll  pass  it  up,  myse'f,' 
says  Jack,  *  but  don't  you  know,  I  can't  do  it. 
I'm  too  sperited,  that  a-way,  an'  chivalrous. 
That's  whatever!  I'm  too  chivalrous.'  An'  I 
shore  reckons  he  was. 

"  But  as  for  doin'  his  dooty  !  Which  the  same 
is  simply  relaxation  to  Jack  Moore.  I  recalls 
one  instance  speshul.  One  day  thar  comes  trail- 
in'  along  into  Wolfvillea  party  from  down  'round 
Yallerhouse  some'ers.  This  yere  Yallerhouse 
gent  looks  disperited  an'  off  color  as  to  health. 
But  of  course  we-alls  don't  refer  none  to  it;  for 


144  Wolfville. 

whether  this  stranger's  sick  or  well  is  his  business, 
not  ours  ;  leastwise  in  its  first  stages.  This  yere's 
before  Doc  Peets  inhabits  Wolfville  or  he'd  in- 
formed us  touchin'  this  party's  that  a-way. 

"  Which  the  Yallerhouse  gent  tracks  along  into 
the  Red  Light,  an'  tells  the  barkeep  to  set  out 
the  nose-paint.  He  drinks  alone,  not  invitin'  of 
the  pop'lace,  whereby  we  knows  for  shore  he's 
often  his  feed. 

"  Well,  after  he  corrals  his  forty  drops,  this  in- 
valid camps  down  in  one  corner  of  the  stage 
station,  an*  next  mornin'  he  wakes  up  outen  his 
head  an*  plumb  locoed. 

" '  This  yere  Yallerhouse  man,'  says  Dan 
Boggs,  comin'  along  into  the  Red  Light  about 
first-drink  time  the  same  mornin',  an'  speakin' 
general,  '  is  what  conserv'tive  opinion  might  call 
"  some  sick."  I  stops  a  minute  ago  an'  asks  him 
how  he's  stackin'  up  like,  but  it  ain't  no  use. 
He's  plumb  off  his  mental  reservation,  an'  crazy 
as  a  woman's  watch.' 

"Whatever  do  you  allow  is  the  matter  of  him, 
Boggs  ?  '  asks  Old  Man  Enright. 

"  *  Smallpox,'  says  Boggs,  mighty  confident. 

" '  Smallpox !  '  repeats  Enright  ;  *  be  you  shore  ?  ' 

"  '  That's  what  I  says,'  answers  Boggs  ;  *  an' 
you  can  gamble  my  long  suit  is  pickin'  out  small- 
pox every  time.  I  knows  the  signal  smoke  like 
my  own  campfire.' 

*' '  Well,  see  yere,'  says  Dave  Tutt,  who's  come 


The  Man  from  Yellowhouse*  145 

in,  '  I  jest  now  rounds  up  them  symptoms  of  this 
Yallerhouse  gent ;  an'  talkin'  of  smallpox,  I  offers 
a  hundred  dollars  even  he  ain't  got  no  smallpox. 
Bein'  out  solely  for  legit'mate  sport,'  continues 
Tutt,  '  an'  not  aimin'  to  offend  Boggs  none,  I 
willin'ly  calls  it  fifty  to  one  hundred  he  ain't  got 
nothin'.' 

"'  Which  I  takes  both  bets,'  says  Boggs,  *  an' 
deems  'em  easy.  Which  both  is  like  robbin'  a 
bird's-nest.  Yere's  the  circ'latin'  medium.  Thar  ; 
cover  it  an'  file  it  away  with  the  barkeep  to  wait 
results.'  So  Tutt  an'  Boggs  makes  their  bets 
mighty  eager,  an'  the  barkeep  holds  the  stakes. 

"  As  soon  as  it  gets  blown  through  Wolfville 
this  Yallerhouse  party  has  smallpox,  everybody 
comes  canterin'  over  to  the  Red  Light,  gets  a 
drink,  an'  wants  to  hold  a  mass  meetin'  over  it. 
By  partic'lar  request  Enright  takes  the  chair  an' 
calls  'em  to  order. 

" '  This  yere  meetin','  says  Enright,  meanwhile 
beatin'  with  the  butt  of  his  six-shooter  on  the 
poker-table,  *  is  some  sudden  an'  permiscus ;  but 
the  objects  is  easy  an'  plain.  We-alls  convenes 
ourse'fs  to  consider  the  physical  condition  of  this 
party  from  Yallerhouse,  which  report  says  is 
locoed  an*  can't  talk  none  for  himse'f.  To  make 
this  inquiry  a  success,  we-alls  oughter  see  this 
Yallerhouse  gent ;  an'  as  thar  is  fewer  of  him 
than  of  us,  I  app'ints  Jack  Moore,  Dan  Boggs, 
an'  Short  Creek  Dave,  a  committee,  of  three,  to 


146  Wolfville* 

bring  him  before  us  in  a  body.  Pendin'  the  re- 
turn of  the  committee  the  meetin'  will  take  a 
drink  with  the  chair/ 

"  In  about  no  time  back  comes  the  outfit, 
packin'  the  Yallerhouse  man  all  easy  enough  in  a 
blanket,  an'  spreads  him  out  on  the  floor.  He 
looks  sorter  red  'round  in  spots,  like  somethings 
been  stingin'  of  him,  but  it's  evident,  as  Boggs 
says,  he's  locoed.  He  lays  thar,  rollin'  his  eyes 
an'  carryin'  on  to  himse'f,  but  he  don't  address 
the  chair  or  offer  to  take  no  part  in  the  meetin'. 
Enright  quaffs  his  drink  all  slow  an'  dignified, 
an'  gazes  at  the  Yallerhouse  man  on  the  floor. 

"  *  Well,  gents,'  says  Enright  at  last,  settin' 
down  his  glass,  an'  givin'  the  poker-table  a  little 
tap  with  his  gun,  '  yere's  the  party,  an'  the  ques- 
tion is  now  :  "  What's  he  got?-"  Do  I  hear  any 
remarks  ?  ' 

"  *  Bein'  in  the  lines,  Mister  Pres'dent,'  says 
Boggs,  '  of  previous  assertion,  an'  for  the  purpose 
of  bringin'  the  question  squar'  before  this  house, 
I  now  moves  you  this  yere  Yallerhouse  party 
has  the  smallpox.  I  ain't  aimin'  herein  at 
playin'  it  low  on  Tutt,  an'  su'gests  that  the 
chair,  in  puttin'  the  question,  also  informs  the 
meetin'  as  to  them  wagers  ;  which  the  money 
tharof  is  now  in  the  war-bags  of  the  barkeep.  I 
believes  in  givin'  every  gent  all  necessary  light 
wherein  to  make  up  his  mind ;  an',  as  I  says,  to 
open  the  game  all  logical,  I  ag'in  moves  this 
Yallerhouse  man  has  the  smallpox.' 


The  Man  from  Yellowhouse*  147 

" '  Yo  tambien,'  yells  a  Mexican  over  near  the 
door. 

"  '  Put  that  Greaser  out ! '  shouts  Enright,  at 
the  same  time  bangin'  the  table.  '  This  ain't  no 
international  incident  at  all,  an'  nothin'  but  the 
clean-strain  American  wolf  is  eligible  to  howl.' 

"  The  Greaser  goes  out  on  his  saddle-colored 
head,  an'  Enright  puts  Boggs's  motion. 

"  '  Every  gent,'  says  Enright,  *  in  favor  of  this 
Yallerhouse  man  havin'  the  smallpox,  say  "  Aye  "  ; 
contrary  "No."  ' 

"  Everybody  shouts  '  Aye  ! ' 

"'Which  the  "Ayes"  has  it  unanimous,' 
says  Enright.  *  The  Yallerhouse  party  has  the 
smallpox,  an'  the  next  chicken  on  the  parliamen- 
tary roost  is  the  question  :  "  Whatever  is  to  be 
done  to  make  this  yere  malady  a  success?"  Is 
thar  any  su'gestions? ' 

"  '  Mister  Pres'dent,'  says  Texas  Thompson, 
risin'  in  his  place,  '  I've  done  took  no  hand  in 
these  proceedin's  so  far,  through  ignorance  of 
the  purposes  of  this  yere  convocation.  Said  pur- 
poses bein'  now  for  the  first  time  lined  out  all 
right  in  my  mind,  an'  the  question  bein',  "  What's 
to  be  done  with  our  captive?"  I  asks  your  indul- 
gence. My  first  idee  is  that  our  dooty  an'  our 
path  is  plain;  the  same  bein'  simply  to  take  a 
lariat  an*  hang  this  Yallerhouse  person  to  the 
dance-hall  windmill  ;  but  this  course,  on  second 
thought,  seems  prematoor  an'  the  offsprings  of 


148  Wolfville, 

nacheral  impulse.  Still,  somethin'  must  be  done  ; 
an'  while  my  mind  is  by  no  means  cl'ar,  I  su'gests 
we  turn  the  gent  over  to  Jack  Moore,  which  is 
the  marshal  hereof,  to  ride  herd  on  him  till 
further  orders ;  an*  I  makes  a  motion  to  that 
effect.' 

"  '  Seconds  the  motion  ! '  says  Short  Creek 
Dave. 

"  'You  don't  have  to  put  that  motion,  Mister 
Pres'dent,'  says  Jack  ;  '  I've  been  circlin'  the  idee 
some  myse'f,  an'  I  reckons  it's  my  dooty  to  take 
charge  of  this  Yallerhouse  gent.  You  can  bet 
anythin'  which  gets  sawed  onto  me  as  my  dooty 
goes,  an'  don't  make  no  doubt  about  it.  Yere's 
how  I  trails  out  on  this:  If  it  ain't  my  dooty  to 
take  care  of  this  person,  whose  dooty  is  it  ? 
'Tain't  nobody's.  Tharfore  I  plays  the  hand.' 

" '  Which  the  same  bein'  eminent  satisfactory,' 
says  Dave  Tutt,  risin',  as  if  he  thinks  of  some- 
thin'  speshul,  '  I  now  inquires  whether  this  yere 
is  held  decisive  of  them  bets  I  makes  with  Boggs. 
I  holdin',  meanwhile,  contrary  views  emphatic.' 

"  '  This  bein'  a  question  of  priv'lege,'  says  En- 
right,  '  the  chair  will  answer  it.  These  pro- 
ceedin's  decides  your  bets  with  Boggs,  an'  the 
barkeep  pays  Boggs  the  dinero.  This  is  a  gov'- 
ment  of  the  people,  for  the  people,  by  the  people, 
an'  founded  on  a  vox  populi  bluff.  The  voice  of 
the  majority  goes.  You  tharfore  lose  your  bets  to 
Boggs;  drinks  on  Boggs,  of  course.  Thar  is  an- 


The  Man  from  Yellowhouse*  149 

other  matter/ continues  Enright, 'a  bet  we  over- 
looks. Takin'  care  of  this  Yallerhouse  gent  will 
cost  a  stack  or  two,  an'  means  must  be  provided. 
I  tharfore  makes  as  an  order  that  yereafterthar's 
to  be  a  rake  on  tens-up  or  better,  showed,  to 
make  a  fund  to  back  this  play  ;  said  rake  to  go 
ontil  Mister  Moore  reports  said  Yallerhouse  gent 
as  safe  or  ceased  to  be/ 

"  Jack  takes  this  Yallerhouse  party  over  to 
the  calaboose  an'  lays  him  away  on  some  blan- 
kets. The  calaboose  is  dry,  an'  what  you-alls 
might  call,  commodious.  It's  a  slam-up  camp  ; 
yes  indeed  !  Never  has  but  Steve  Stevenson  in  it. 
Puts  Steve  in  one  night  when  he's  dead-drunk. 
The  calaboose  is  new  then,  an'  we-alls  is  that 
proud  an'  anxious  to  try  it  an'  put  it  to  some 
use,  we  couldn't  resist,  so  in  Steve  goes. 

"  About  four  hours  later  Steve  comes  back  up 
to  the  Red  Light,  hotter'n  a  burnt  boot.  Seems 
like  he  comes  to,  an'  is  that  outraged  an'  indig- 
nant about  bein'  corralled  that  a-way,  he  busts 
the  corner  outen  the  calaboose  an'  issues  forth 
a  whole  lot  to  find  who  does  it. 

"  When  he  comes  into  the  Red  Light  he  re- 
vives himse'f  with  a  drink,  an'  then  inquires 
whether  it's  humorous,  or  do  we  mean  it?  Seein' 
how  speshul  low  Steve  takes  it,  we-alls  allows  it's 
a  joke  ;  an'  Steve,  while  he  evident  feels  some 
fretted,  concloods  to  let  it  go  at  that. 

"  But  on  account  of  the  hole  through   which 


1 50  Wolfville. 

Steve  emerges,  an'  which  he  makes  liberal  an' 
big,  the  calaboose  is  a  mighty  commodious  place. 
So  Jack  beds  down  the  Yallerhouse  man  all  right 
an'  starts  in  to  bringin'  him  through.  The  rest 
of  us  don't  crowd  'round  none  to  watch  the  play, 
don't  hover  over  it  that  a-way,  'cause  we  ain't 
aimin'  to  acquire  nothin'  ourse'fs. 

"  Jack  has  a  heap  of  trouble  an'  worry.  Never 
sees  no  smallpox  do  you  ?  Folks  locoed  most 
usual, — clean  off  up  in  the  air  an'  pitchin'  on 
their  ropes.  Of  course  the  Yallerhouse  gent  has 
all  he  needs.  That  rake  on  tens-up  them  days 
would  have  took  care  of  a  fam'ly.  But  he  keeps 
Jack  herdin'  him  all  the  time.  Otherwise,  not 
bein'  watched,  an'  crazy  that  a-way,  he's  liable  to 
come  stampedin'  over  to  the  Red  Light,  or  some- 
'ers  else,  any  time,  an'  skeer  us  up  some. 

"  '  He's  a  world-beater/  says  Jack  one  day,  when 
he  comes  over  for  a  drink.  '  He's  shorely  four 
kings  an'  an  ace.  You  can't  ride  him  with  buck- 
in'-straps  an'  a  Spanish  bit.  It's  got  so  now — his 
disease  bein'  at  a  crisis  like — that  I  simply  has  to 
be  with  this  Yallerhouse  party  day*  an'  night. 
He'd  shorely  lay  waste  this  camp  if  I  didn't/ 

"  At  last  the  Yallerhouse  party  an'  Jack  some- 
how beats  the  smallpox,  but  Yallerhcnise  comes 
out  shy  an  eye.  The  smallpox  gouges  it  out 
one  of  them  times  when  Jack  ain't  lookin*  out 
his  game  sharp.  It's  his  pistol  eye,  too;  which 
makes  him  feel  the  loss  more  keen,  an*  creates 


The  Man  from  Yellowhousc*  151 

general  sympathy.  The  Yallerhouse  man  gets 
some  morose  over  it,  which  ain't,  after  all,  on- 
nacheral.  A  gent  ain't  got  so  many  eyes  he  can 
afford  to  go  short  one  on  every  little  game  he 
plays.  So  he  finds  fault  with  Jack  a  lot,  an'  al- 
lows if  he  has  him  back  in  the  States  he'd  sue 
him  for  neglect  of  dooty. 

"  '  Which,  I  shorely  likes  that ! '  says  Jack  to 
the  Yallerhouse  party,  gettin'  peevish  over  his 
fault-findin'.  '  Don't  you  know  it's  merely  owin' 
to  the  mercy  of  hell  an*  my  watchful  care,  you- 
all  ain't  bustin'  your  harp-strings  an'  raisin'  all 
'round  discord  among  the  heavenly  hosts  on  high 
right  now,  instead  of  bein'  safe  an'  well  yere  in 
Wolfville  ?  You  don't  act  like  a  gent  who  saveys 
when  he  makes  a  winnin'.  S'pose  you  be  an  eye 
out ;  you're  still  lookin'  at  things  terrestrial  with 
the  other.  You  talks  of  gross  neglect  of  dooty  ! 
Now  let  me  inform  you  of  somethin' :  You  come 
pesterin'  'round  me  some  more  an*  I'll  bend  a 
gun  over  your  head/ 

"  '  Which  if  it  ain't  my  six-shooter  eye  which's 
out,'  says  the  Yallerhouse  party,  mighty  ugly, 
'do  you  know  what  I'd  do?  Well,  this  yere 
would  be  the  basis  of  a  first-class  gun-play.  You 
can  gamble  thar  wouldn't  be  no  jim-crow  marshal 
go  pirootin'  'round,  losin'  no  eye  of  mine  an*  get- 
tin'  away  with  it,  an'  then  talk  of  bendin*  guns 
on  me  ;  none  whatever/ 

"  But  it   all  preys  on   Jack.      An'  a-seein*   of 


iS2  Wolfville. 

this  Yallerhouse  gent  'round  camp  a-lookin'  at 
him  in  a  fault-findin*  way  outen  his  one  eye  sorter 
aggravates  Jack  like  it's  a  nightmare. 

" '  I  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much,'  says  Jack  to 
me,  confidential,  '  if  this  Yallerhouse  gent  quits  a 
laig  or  an  arm  behind,  'cause  in  which  event  we 
pieces  him  out  with  wood,  easy.  But  about 
eyes,  it's  different.  An  eye  out  is  an  eye  out ; 
an*  that  settles  it.' 

"  One  day  Jack  can't  b'ar  it  no  longer,  an',  re- 
solvin'  to  end  it,  he  walks  up  to  the  Yallerhouse 
party  in  the  Red  Light,  all  brisk  an'  brief. 

"  *  It's  a  rough  deal  on  a  one-eyed  gent,'  says 
Jack,  'an*  I  shore  asks  pardon  an'  states  regrets 
in  advance.  But  things  has  got  to  a  show-down. 
I'm  slowly  becomin'  onfit  for  public  dooty. 
Now  yere's  an  offer,  an'  you  can  have  either  end. 
You-all  can  get  a  hoss  an'  a  hundred  dollars  of 
me,  an'  pull  your  freight ;  or  you  can  fix  your- 
se'f  with  a  gun  an*  have  a  mighty  stirrin'  an' 
eventful  time  with  me  right  yere.  As  an  out- 
come of  the  last,  the  public  will  have  one  of  us  to 
plant,  an*  mebby  a  vacancy  to  fill  in  the  post  of 
kettle-tender.  Which  is  it,  an'  what  do  you  say  ?  ' 

"  '  What  for  a  hoss  is  she  ? '  asked  the  Yaller- 
house party. 

" '  Which  she's  a  pinto]  says  Jack  ;  '  as  excel- 
lent a  paint  pony  as  ever  is  roped.' 

"  '  Does  this  yere  threat  you-all  makes  incloode 
a  saddle  an*  spurs  ?  '  asks  the  Yallerhouse  party. 


The  Man  from  Yellowhouse.  153 

"  *  It  shorely  does,'  replies  Jack.  '  Is  it  a  go  ?  * 
"  '  Well,'  says  the  Yallerhouse  man,  after  pon- 
derin*  it  up  one  way  an'  down  the  other,  *  this 
idee  of  settlin'  for  eyes  for  a  hoss  an'  a  hundred 
dollars  is  far  from  bein'  usual  with  me.  If  I  has 
my  eye  ag'in,  I'd  shorely  stay  an'  shoot  it  out, 
an'  admire  to  be  present.  But  now  sech  thoughts 
is  vanity.  So  round  up  your  money  an*  your 
pony  at  the  Red  Light  in  fifteen  minutes  by  the 
watch,  an'  as  soon  as  I  gets  a  bottle  filled  I'm 
ready  to  go.  I  shorely  should  not  regret  leavin' 
an'  outfit  which  puts  folks  in  jail  for  bein'  sick, 
an'  connives  by  reckless  an'  criminal  neglect  of 
dooty  at  their  bein'  blinded  for  life.'  " 


CHAPTER  XHL 
Jacks  up  on  Eights. 

"  No  ;  you  can  hazard  your  wealth  a  lot,  thar's 
no  sooperstition  lurkin'  'round  in  me  or  my  en- 
virons; none  whatever.  I  attaches  no  impor- 
tance to  what  you-all  calls  omens." 

Somebody  had  undertaken  a  disquisition  on 
dreams,  and  attempted  to  cite  instances  where 
the  future  had  been  indicated  in  these  hazy 
visions  of  our  sleep.  This  had  served  to  turn 
the  Old  Cattleman's  train  of  thought  upon  the 
weird. 

"  Thar's  signs,  of  course,  to  which  I'd  shorely 
bow,  not  to  say  pay  absorbin'  heed.  If  some 
gent  with  whom  I  chooses  to  differ  touchin'  some 
matter  that's  a  heap  relevant  at  the  time,  ups  an* 
reaches  for  his  gun  abrupt,  it  fills  me  full  of  pree- 
monitions  that  the  near  future  is  mighty  liable 
to  become  loaded  with  lead  an'  interest  for  me. 
Now  thar's  an  omen  I  don't  discount.  But  after 
all  I  ain't  consentin*  to  call  them  apprehensions 
of  mine  the  froot  of  no  sooperstition,  neither. 
I'm  merely  chary ;  that's  all. 

"  It's  Cherokee   Hall  who  is  what  I   onhesita- 


Jacks  up  on  Eights*  155 

tin'ly  describes  as  sooperstitious.  Cherokee  is 
afflicted  by  more  signs  an'  omens  in  carryin'  on 
his  business  than  an  almanac.  It's  a  way  kyard- 
sharps  gets  into,  I  reckons  ;  sorter  grows  outen 
their  trade.  Leastwise  I  never  creeps  up  on  one 
yet  who  ain't  bein'  guided  by  all  sorts  of  miracles 
an'  warnin's  that  a-way.  An'  sometimes  it  does 
look  like  they  acquires  a  p'inter  that  comes  to 
'em  on  straight  lines.  As  'llustratin'  this  yere 
last,  it  returns  to  me  some  vivid  how  Cherokee 
an'  Boggs  gets  to  prophesyin'  one  day,  an'  how 
they  calls  off  the  play  between  'em  so  plumb 
c'rrect  that  a-way,  it's  more  than  amazin' ;  it's 
sinister. 

"  It's  a  hot  August  day,  this  occasion  I  has  in 
mind,  an'  while  not  possessin'  one  of  them  heat- 
gauges  to  say  ackerate,  I'm  allowin'  it's  ridin* 
hard  on  sech  weather  as  this.  A  band  of  us  is 
at  the  post-office  a-wrastlin'  our  letters,  when  in 
trails  Cherokee  Hall  lookin'  some  moody,  an'  sets 
himse'f  down  on  a  box. 

"  *  Which  you-all  no  doubt  allows  you'll  take 
some  missives  yourse'f  this  mornin','  says  Doc 
Peets,  a-noticin'  of  his  gloom,  an'  aimin'  to  p'int 
his  idees  up  some  other  trail.  Doc,  himse'f,  is 
feelin'  some  gala.  *  Pass  over  them  documents 
for  Cherokee  Hall,  an'  don't  hold  out  nothin' 
onto  us.  We-alls  is  'way  too  peevish  to  stand 
any  offishul  gaieties  to-day.' 

"  *  Thar's  no  one  weak-minded  'nough  to  write 


156  Wblfville* 

to  me  none,'  says  Cherokee.  *  Which  I  remarks 
this  yere  phenomenon  with  pleasure.  Mail-bags 
packs  more  grief  than  joy,  an'  I  ain't  honin'  for 
no  hand  in  the  game  whatever.  It's  fifteen  years 
since  I  buys  a  stamp  or  gets  a  letter,  an'  all 
thirst  tharfor  is  assuaged  complete.' 

"  *  Fifteen  years  is  shore  a  long  time,'  says 
Enright,  sorter  to  himse'f,  an'  then  we-alls  hops 
into  our  letters  ag'in.  Finally  Cherokee  breaks 
in  once  more. 

"  *  I  ain't  aimin'  to  invest  Wolfville  in  no  soo- 
perstitious  fears,'  says  Cherokee,  '  an'  I  merely 
chronicles  as  a  current  event  how  I  was  settin' 
into  a  little  poker  last  night,  an'  three  times 
straight  I  picks  up  "  the  hand  the  dead  man 
held,"  jacks  up  on  eights,  an'  it  wins  every  time/ 

"  *  Who  lose  to  it  ?  '  asks  Dan  Boggs. 

" '  Why,'  says  Cherokee,  '  it's  every  time  that 
old  longhorn  as  comes  in  from  Tucson  back 
some  two  weeks  ago/ 

"  *  That  settles  it/  says  Boggs,  mighty  decided. 
1  You  can  bet  your  saddle  an'  throw  the  pony  in, 
Death  is  fixin'  his  sights  for  him  right  now.  It's 
shorely  a  warnin',  an'  I'm  plumb  glad  it  ain't 
none  of  the  boys ;  that's  all/ 

"You  see  this  yere  stranger  who  Cherokee 
alloods  at  comes  over  from  Tucson  a  little  while 
before.  He  has  long  white  ha'r  an*  beard,  an', 
jedgin'  from  the  rings  on  his  horns,  he's  mebby 
a-comin'  sixty.  He  seems  like  he's  plenty  of 


Jacks  up  on  Eights*  157 

money,  an*  we  takes  it  he's  all  right.  His 
leavin'  Tucson  shows  he  has  sense,  so  we  cashes 
him  in  at  his  figger.  Of  course  we-alls  never  asks 
his  name  none,  as  askin'  names  an'  lookin*  at  the 
brands  on  a  pony  is  speshul  roode  in  the  West, 
an*  shows  your  bringin'  up ;  but  he  allows  he's 
called '  Old  Bill  Gentry  '  to  the  boys,  an'  he  an' 
Faro  Nell's  partic'lar  friendly. 

"'Talkin'  to  him/  says  Nell,  Ms  like  layin'  in 
the  shade.  He  knows  everything  too  ;  all  about 
books  an'  things  all  over  the  world.  He  was 
a-tellin'  me,  too,  as  how  he  had  a  daughter  like 
me  that  died  'way  back  some'ers  about  when  I 
was  a  yearlin'.  He  feels  a  heap  bad  about  it  yet, 
an*  I  gets  so  sorry  for  him ;  so  old  an'  white- 
ha'red.' 

" '  An'  you  can  gamble,'  says  Dave  Tutt,  '  if 
Nell  likes  him,  he's  all  right.' 

"'If  Nell  likes  him,  that  makes  him  all  right,' 
says  Cherokee. 

"  We-alls  is  still  talkin*  an'  readin'  over  our 
mail  in  the  post-office,  when  all  at  once  we  hears 
Jack  Moore  outside. 

"  *  What's  this  yere  literatoor  as  affronts  my 
eyes,  pasted  onto  the  outside  of  Uncle  Sam's 
wickeyup  ? '  says  Jack,  mighty  truculent.  We- 
alls  goes  out,  an'  thar,  shore-'nough,  is  a  notice 
offerin'  fifteen  hundred  dollars  reward  for  some 
sharp  who's  been  a-standin'  up  the  stage  over 
towards  Prescott. 


158  Wolfvilie* 

"  '  Whoever  tacks  this  up  ?  I  wonder/  says  En- 
right.  '  It  never  is  yere  ten  minutes  ago.' 

"  '  Well,  jest  you-all  hover  'round  an' watch  the 
glory  of  its  comin'  down,'  says  Jack,  a-cuttin'  of 
it  loose  with  his  bowie,  an*  tearin'  it  up.  *  I  yere- 
with  furnishes  the  information  cold,  this  camp  of 
Wolfville  knows  its  business  an'  don't  have  to  be 
notified  of  nothin'.  This  yere  outfit  has  a  vig'- 
lance  committee  all  reg'lar,  which  I'm  kettle- 
tender  tharfor,  an'  when  it  comes  nacheral  to  an- 
nounce some  notice  to  the  public,  you-alls  will 
perceive  me  a-pervadin'  of  the  scenery  on  a  hoss 
an'  promulgatin'  of  said  notice  viver  voce.  Am  I 
right,  Enright  ? ' 

"  *  Right  as  preachin',  Jack,'  says  Enright. 
'  You  speaks  trooth  like  a  runnin*  brook.' 

"  '  But  whoever  sticks  that  notice  ? — that's  the 
information  I  pants  for,'  says  Boggs,  pickin'  up 
an'  readin*  of  the  piece. 

"  '  I  reckons  I  posts  that  notice  some  myse'f,' 
says  a  big,  squar'-built  gent  we-alls  don't  know, 
an'  who  comes  in  the  other  mornin*  with  Old 
Monte  on  the  stage.  As  he  says  this  he's  sa'n- 
terin'  about  the  suburbs  of  the  crowd,  listenin* 
to  the  talk. 

"'Well,  don't  do  it  no  more,  partner,'  says 
Jack,  mighty  grave.  'As  a  commoonity  Wolf- 
ville's  no  doubt  'way  wrong,  but  we-alls  has  our 
prides  an*  our  own  pecooliar  little  notions,  that 
a-way,  about  what  looks  good  ;  so,  after  now, 


Jacks  up  on  Eights*  159 

don't  alter  the  landscape  none  'round  yere  till 
you  c'lects  our  views.' 

"'I'm  offerin*  even  money,  postin*  notices 
don't  hurt  this  yere  camp  a  little  bit/  says  the 
stranger. 

"  '  Comin'  right  to  cases/  says  Enright,  '*  it 
don't  hurt  none,  but  it  grates  a  whole  lot.  The 
idee  of  a  mere  stranger  a-strollin'  in  an'  a-pastin' 
up  of  notices,  like  he's  standin'  a  pat  hand  on 
what  he  knows  an'  we  not  in  it,  is  a  heap  on- 
pleasant.  So  don't  do  it  no  more.' 

"  *  Which  I  don't  aim  to  do  it  no  more,'  says 
the  squar'-built  gent,  '  but  I  still  clings  to  my 
idee  that  notices  ain't  no  set-back  to  this  camp.' 

"  '  The  same  bein'  a  mere  theery/  says  Doc 
Peets,  '  personal  to  yourse'f,  I  holds  it  would  be 
onp'lite  to  discuss  it ;  so  let's  all  wheel  onder 
cover  for  a  drink.' 

"At  this  we-alls  lines  up  on  the  Red  Light  bar 
an'  nacherally  drinks  ends  the  talk,  as  they  allers 
ought. 

"Along  towards  sundown  we-alls  gets  some 
cooler,  an'  by  second-drink  time  in  the  evenin* 
every  one  is  movin'  about,  an',  as  it  happens, 
quite  a  band  is  in  the  Red  Light ;  some  drinkin' 
an'  exchangin'  of  views,  an'  some  buckin'  the  vari- 
ous games  which  is  goin'  wide  open  all  'round. 
Cherokee's  settin'  behind  his  box,  an'  Faro  Nell 
is  up  at  his  shoulder  on  the  lookout  stool.  The 
game's  goin'  plenty  lively  when  along  comes  Old 


160  Wolfville. 

Gentry.  Cherokee  takes  a  glance  at  him  an' 
seems  worried  a  little,  reflecting  no  doubt,  of 
them  *  hands  the  dead  man  held,'  but  he  goes  on 
dealin'  without  a  word. 

"'  Where's  you-all  done  been  all  day?'  says 
Nell  to  the  old  man.  '  I  ain't  seen  you  none 
whatever  since  yesterday.' 

" '  Why,  I  gets  tired  an'  done  up  a  lot,  settin' 
ag'inst  Cherokee  last  night,'  says  the  old  man,  '  an' 
so  I  prowls  down  in  my  blankets  an'  .sleeps  some 
till  about  an  hour  ago.' 

"  The  old  man  buys  a  stack  of  blues  an'  sets 
'em  on  the  ten.  It's  jest  then  in  comes  the  squar'- 
built  gent,  who's  been  postin'  of  the  notice  for- 
mer, an'  p'ints  a  six-shooter  at  Gentry  an'  says  : 

*' '  Put  your  hands  up  ! — put  'em  up  quick  or 
I'll  drill  you  !  Old  as  you  be,  I  don't  take  no 
chances.' 

"  At  the  first  word  Nell  comes  off  her  stool  like 
a  small  landslide,  while  Cherokee  brings  a  gun 
into  play  on  the  instant.  The  old  man's  up  even 
with  the  proceedin's,  too  ;  an'  stands  thar,  his 
gun  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  a-glitterin'  an'  his  white 
beard  a-curlin'  like  a  cat's.  He's  clean  strain. 

"  '  Let  me  get  a  word  in,  gents,'  says  Cherokee, 
plenty  ca'm,  '  an'  don't  no  one  set  in  his  stack  on- 
less  he's  got  a  hand.  I  does  business  yere  my 
way,  an'  I'm  due  to  down  the  first  hold-up  who 
shoots  across  any  layout  of  mine.  Don't  make 
no  mistake,  or  the  next  census'll  be  shy,  shore/ 


Jacks  up  on  Eights,  161 

" '  What  be  you-alls  aimin'  to  cel'brate  any- 
how ? '  says  Jack  Moore,  gettin'  the  squar'-built 
gent's  gun  while  Boggs  corrals  Gentry's.  '  Who's 
Wolfville  entartainin'  yere,  I'd  like  for  to  know?' 

".'  I'm  a  Wells-Fargo  detective,'  says  the  squar'- 
built  gent,  '  an'  this  yere,'  p'intin'  to  Old  Gentry, 
*  is  Jim  Yates,  the  biggest  hold-up  an'  stage-robber 
between  hell  an'  'Frisco.  That  old  tarrapin'll 
stop  a  stage  like  a  young-one  would  a  clock, 
merely  to  see  what's  into  it.  He's  the  party  I'm 
pastin'  up  the  notice  for  this  morninY 

"  '  He's  a  liar ! '  says  the  old  man,  a-gettin*  uglier 
every  minute.  '  Give  us  our  six-shooters  an* 
throw  us  loose,  an'  if  I  don't  lance  the  roof  of  his 
lyin'  mouth  with  the  front  sight  of  my  gun,  I'll 
cash  in  for  a  hold-up  or  whatever  else  you-alls 
says.' 

" '  What  do  you  say,  Enright  ?  *  says  Jack. 
'  Let's  give  'em  their  jewelry  an*  let  'em  lope. 
I've  got  money  as  says  the  Wells-Fargo  bill-pas- 
ter can't  take  this  old  Cimmaron  a  little  bit.' 

" '  Which  I  trails  in,'  says  Boggs,  *  with  a  few 
chips  on  the  same  kyard.' 

"  *  No,'  says  Enright,  '  if  this  yere  party's  rust- 
Hn'  the  mails,  we-alls  can't  call  his  hand  too  quick. 
Wolfville's  a  straight  camp  an*  don't  back  no 
crim'nal  plays  ;  none  whatever/ 

"  Enright  tharupon  calls  a  meetin*  of  the  Stran- 
glers,  an*  we-alls  lines  out  for  the  New  York  Store 
to  talk  it  over.  Before  we  done  pow-wows  two 


1 62  Wolfville. 

minutes  up  comes  Old  Monte,  with  the  stage,  all 
dust  an'  cuss-words,  an'  allows  he's  been  stood  up 
out  by  the  cow  springs  six  hours  before,  an'  is 
behind  the  mail-bag  an'  the  Adams  Company's 
box  on  the  deal.  We-alls  looks  at  Old  Man  Gen- 
try, an'  he  shorely  seems  to  cripple  down. 

"'Gentry,'  says  Peets,  after  Old  Monte  tells 
his  adventures,  *  I  hears  you  tell  Nell  you  was 
sleepin'  all  day.  S'pose  you  takes  this  yere  com- 
mittee to  your  budwer  an'  exhibits  to  us  how  it 
looks  some/ 

"  'The  turn's  ag'in  me,'  says  the  old  man,  'an' 
I  lose.  I'll  cut  it  short  for  you-alls.  I  holds  up 
that  stage  this  afternoon  myse'f.' 

"  '  This  yere's  straight  goods,  I  takes  it,'  says 
Enright,  '  an'  our  dooty  is  plain.  Go  over  to  the 
corral  an'  get  a  lariat,  Jack.' 

"  '  Don't  let  Enright  hang  the  old  man,  Chero- 
kee,' says  Nell,  beginnin'  to  weep  a  whole  lot. 
'  Please  don't  let  'em  hang  him.' 

"  'This  holdin'  a  gun  on  your  friends  ain't  no 
picnic,'  whispers  Cherokee  to  Nell,  an'  flushin'  up 
an'  then  turnin'  pale,  '  but  your  word  goes  with 
me,  Nell.'  Then  Cherokee  thinks  a  minute. 
'  Now,  this  yere  is  the  way  we  does,'  he  says  at 
last.  '  I'll  make  'em  a  long  talk.  You-all  run 
over  to  the  corral  an'  bring  the  best  hoss  you  sees 
saddled.  I'll  be  talkin'  when  you  comes  back, 
an'  you  creep  up  an'  whisper  to  the  old  man  to 
make  a  jump  for  the  pony  while  I  covers  the  deal 


Jacks  up  on  Eights.  163 

with  my  six-shooter.  It's  playin'  it  low  on 
Enright  an'  Doc  Peets  an'  the  rest,  but  I'll  do  it 
for  you,  Nell.  It  all  comes  from  them  jacks  up 
on  eights.' 

"  With  this,  Cherokee  tells  Nell  '  good-by,'  an' 
squar's  himse'f.  He  begins  to  talk,  an'  Nell 
makes  a  quiet  little  break  for  the  corral. 

"  But  no  hoss  is  ever  needed.  Cherokee  don't 
talk  a  minute  when  Old  Gentry  comes  buckin'  of- 
fen  his  chair  in  a  'pleptic  fit.  A  'pleptic  fit  is  per- 
miscus  an'  tryin',  an'  when  Old  Gentry  gets 
through  an'  comes  to  himse'f,  he's  camped  jest 
this  side  of  the  dead  line.  He  can  only  whisper. 

"  '  Come  yere,'  says  he,  motionin'  to  Cherokee. 
'  Thar's  a  stack  of  blues  where  I  sets  'em  on  the 
ten  open,  which  you  ain't  turned  for  none  yet. 
Take  all  I  has  besides  an'  put  with  it.  If  it  lose, 
it's  yours  ;  if  it  win,  give  it  to  the  little  girl.' 

"  This  is  all  Old  Gentry  says,  an'  he  cashes  in 
the  very  next  second  on  the  list. 

"  Enright  goes  through  'em,  an'  thar's  over  two 
thousand  dollars  in  his  war-bags  ;  an',  obeyin'  them 
last  behests,  we-alls  goes  over  to  the  Red  Light 
an'  puts  it  on  the  ten  along  of  the  stack  of  blues. 
It's  over  the  limit,  but  Cherokee  proceeds  with 
the  deal,  an'  when  it  comes  I'm  blessed  if  the  ten 
ain't  loser  an'  Cherokee  gets  it  all. 

"  '  But  1  won't  win  none  ag'in  a  dead  man/  says 
Cherokee.  An'  he  gives  it  to  Nell,  who  ain't 
sooperstitious. 


164  Wolfville. 

" '  Do  you-alls  b'ar  in  mind,'  says  Boggs,  as  we 
takes  a  drink  later,  '  how  I  foresees  this  yere 
racket  the  minute  I  hears  Cherokee  a-tellin*  about 
his  "  Jacks  up  on  eights  " — the  "  hand  the  dead 
man  holds? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  Rival  Dance-Halls* 

IT  was  sweet  and  cool  after  the  rain,  and  the 
Old  Cattleman  and  I,  moved  by  an  admiration 
for  the  open  air  which  was  mutual,  found  our- 
selves together  on  the  porch. 

As  in  part  recompense  for  his  reminiscences  of 
the  several  days  before,  I  regaled  my  old  friend 
with  the  history  of  a  bank-failure,  the  details  as 
well  as  the  causes  of  which  were  just  then  forc- 
ing themselves  upon  me  in  the  guise  of  business. 

"  The  fact  is,"  I  said,  as  I  came  to  the  end  of 
my  story,  "  the  fact  is,  the  true  cause  of  this 
bank's  downfall  was  a  rivalry — what  one  might 
call  a  business  feud — which  grew  into  being  be- 
tween it  and  a  similar  institution  which  had 
opened  as  its  neighbor.  In  the  competition 
which  fell  out  they  fairly  cut  each  other's  throat. 
They  both  failed." 

"  An'  I  takes  it,"  remarked  the  Old  Cattleman 
in  comment,  "  one  of  these  yere  trade  dooels  that 
a-way  goes  on  vindictive  an'  remorseless,  same  as 
if  it's  a  personal  fight  between  cow-folks  over 
cattle." 


1 66  Wolfville. 

"  Quite  right/*  I  said.  "  Money  is  often  more 
cruel  than  men  ;  and  a  business  vendetta  is  fre- 
quently mere  murder  without  the  incident  of 
blood.  I  don't  suppose  the  life  of  your  Arizona 
town  would  show  these  trade  wars.  It  would 
take  Eastern — that  is,  older — conditions,  to  pro- 
voke and  carry  one  on." 

"  No,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  with  an  air 
of  retrospection,  "  I  don't  recall  nothin'  of  the 
sort  in  Wolfville.  We're  too  much  in  a  huddle, 
anyway ;  thar  ain't  room  for  no  sech  fracas,  no- 
how. Now  the  nearest  we-alls  comes  to  anythin' 
of  the  kind  is  when  the  new  dance-hall  starts 
that  time. 

"  Which  I  reckons,"  continued  the  Old  Cattle- 
man, as  he  began  arranging  a  smoke,  "  which  I 
now  reckons  this  yere  is  the  only  catyclism  in 
trade  Wolfville  suffers;  the  only  time  it  comes 
to  what  you-all  Eastern  sports  would  call  a  show- 
down in  commerce.  Of  course  thar's  the  laun- 
dry war,  but  that's  between  females  an*  don't 
count.  Females — while  it's  no  sorter  doubt 
they's  the  noblest  an'  most  exhilaratin'  work  of 
their  Redeemer — is  nervous  that  a-way,  an*  due 
any  time  to  let  their  ha'r  down  their  backs,  emit 
a  screech,  an*  claw  an'  lay  for  each  other  for  luck. 
An',  as  I  says,  if  you  confines  the  festivities  to 
them  females  engaged,  an'  prevents  the  men 
standin'  in  on  the  play,  it's  shore  to  wind  up  in 
sobs  an'  forgiveness,  an'  tharfore  it  don't  go. 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls*  167 

"  As  I  says,  what  I  now  relates  is  the  only  in- 
dustrial trouble  I  recalls  in  Wolfville.  I  allers 
remembers  it,  'cause,  bein'  as  how  I  knows  the 
party  who's  the  aggravatin'  cause  tharof,  it  morti- 
fies me  the  way  he  jumps  into  camp  an'  carries  on. 

"  When  I  sees  him  first  is  ages  before,  when  I 
freights  with  eight  mules  over  the  Old  Fort  Bas- 
come  trail  from  Vegas  to  the  Panhandle.  This 
sharp — which  he's  a  tenderfoot  at  the  time,  but 
plumb  wolf  .by  nacher — trails  up  to  me  in  the 
Early  Rose  Saloon  in  Vegas  one  day,  an'  allows 
he'd  like  to  make  a  deal  an*  go  projectin'  over 
into  the  Panhandle  country  with  me  for  a  trip. 

"  Freightin'  that  a-way  three  weeks  alone  on 
the  trail  is  some  harrowin'  to  the  sperits  of  a  gent 
who  loves  company  like  me,  so  I  agrees,  an*  no 
delay  to  it. 

"  Which  I'm  yere  to  mention  I  regrets  later 
I'm  that  easy  I  takes  this  person  along.  Not 
that  he  turns  hostile,  but  he's  allers  havin'  ad- 
ventures, an'  things  keeps  happenin'  to  him  ;  an* 
final,  I  thinks  he's  shorely  dead  an1  gone  com- 
plete— the  same,  as  I  afterward  learns,  bein' 
error;  an',  takin'  it  up  one  trail  an'  down  another, 
that  trip  breaks  me  ofTen  foolin*  with  shorthorns 
complete,  an*  I  don't  go  near  'em  for  years, 
more'n  if  they's  stingin'  lizards. 

"Whatever  does  this  yere  maverick  do  to  me? 
Well,  nothin'  much  to  me  personal ;  but  he 
keeps  a-breedin*  of  events  which  pesters  me. 


168  Wolfville. 

tl  We're  out  about  four  days  when  them  mis- 
haps begins.  I  camps  over  one  sun  on  the 
Concha  to  rest  my  mules.  I'm  loaded  some 
heavy  with  six  thousand  pounds  in  the  lead,  an' 
mebby  four  thousand  pounds  in  the  trail  wagon  ; 
an'  I  stops  a  day  to  give  my  stock  a  chance  to 
roll  an'  breathe  an'  brace  up.  My  off-wheel  mule 
— a  reg'lar  shave-tail — is  bad  med'cine.  Which 
he's  not  only  eager  to  kick  towerists  an'  others 
he  takes  a  notion  ag'inst ;  but  he's  likewise  what 
you-alls  calls  a  kleptomaniac,  an'  is  out  to  steal 
an'  sim'lar  low-down  plays. 

"  I  warns  this  yere  tenderfoot — his  name's 
Smith,  but  I  pulls  on  him  when  conversin'  as 
4  Colonel ' — I  warns  this  shorthorn  not  to  fuss 
'round  my  Jerry  mule,  bein',  as  I  states,  a  mule 
whose  mood  is  ornery. 

"  *  Don't  go  near  him,  Colonel,'  says  I;  'an' 
partic'lar  don't  go  crowdin*  'round  to  get  no  r'ar 
views  of  him.  You-all  has  no  idee  of  the  radius 
of  that  mule  ;  what  you  might  call  his  sweep. 
You  never  will  till  he's  kicked  you  once  or  twice, 
an'  the  information  ain't  worth  no  sech  price. 
So  I  don't  reckon  I'd  fool  with  him,  none  what- 
ever. 

"  '  An'  speshul,  Colonel,'  I  goes  on,  for  I  shore 
aims  to  do  my  dooty  by  him,  '  don't  lay  nothin* 
'round  loose  where  this  yere  Jerry  mule  can  grab 
it  off.  I'm  the  last  freighter  on  the  Plains  to  go 
slanderin'  an'  detractin'  of  a  pore  he'pless  mule 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls,  1 69 

onless  it's  straight ;  but  if  you-all  takes  to  leavin' 
keepsakes  an*  mementoes  layin'  about  casooal 
an'  careless  that  a-way,  Jerry'll  eat  'em  ;  an'  the 
first  you  saveys  your  keepsakes  is  within  Jerry's 
interior,  an'  thar  you  be. 

" '  The  fact  is,  stranger,  this  Jerry  mule's  a 
thief,'  I  says.  '  If  he's  a  human,  Jerry  would  be 
lynched.  But  otherwise  he's  a  sincere,  earnest 
mule  ;  an  up  hill  or  at  a  quicksand  crosein'  Jerry 
goes  into  his  collar  like  a  lion  ;  so  I  forgives  him 
bein'  a  thief  an'  allows  it's  a  peccadillo." 

"  '  Well,  you  bet ! '  says  this  tenderfoot  Colonel, 
'thisyere  Jerry  better  not  come  no  peccadillos 
on  me.' 

" '  If  you-all  maintains  about  twenty  feet,'  I 
replies,  'between  Jerry's  hind-hocks  an'  you;  an' 
if  you  keeps  your  bric-a-brac  in  your  war-bags, 
you  an'  Jerry'll  get  along  like  lambs.  Now,  I 
warns  you,  an'  that's  got  to  do.  If  Jerry  an'  you 
gets  tangled  up  yereafter  you-all  ain't  goin'  to 
harbor  no  revenges  ag'in  him,  nor  make  no  rani- 
kaboo  plays  to  get  even.' 

"  As  I  states,  I'm  camped  on  the  Concha,  an' 
the  Colonel,  who's  allers  out  to  try  experiments 
an'  new  deals,  puts  it  up  he'll  go  down  to  the 
river  an'  take  a  swim.  Tharupon  he  lines  out 
for  the  water. 

"  Jerry's  hangin'  about  camp — for  he's  sorter  a 
pet  mule — allowin'  mebby  I  submits  a  ham-rind 
or  some  sech  delicacy  to  him  to  chew  on  ;  an'  he 


170  Wolfville, 

hears  the  Colonel  su'gest  he'll  swim  some.  So 
when  the  Colonel  p'ints  for  the  Concha,  Jerry 
sa'nters  along  after,  figgerin',  mighty  likely,  as 
how  he'll  pass  the  hour  a-watehin'  the  Colonel 
swim. 

"  I'm  busy  on  flapjacks  at  the  time — which 
flapjacks  is  shore  good  food — an'  I  don't  observe 
nothin'  of  Jerry  nor  the  Colonel  neither.  They's 
away  half  an  hour  when  I  overhears  ejac'lations, 
though  I  can't  make  out  no  words.  I  don't  have 
to  get  caught  in  no  landslide  to  tumble  to  a 
game,  an'  I'm  aware  at  once  that  Jerry  an'  the 
Colonel  has  got  their  destinies  mixed. 

"  Nacherally,  I  goes  over  to  the  field  of  strife, 
aimin'  to  save  Jerry,  or  save  the  Colonel,  which- 
ever has  the  other  down.  When  I  bursts  on  the 
scene,  the  Colonel  starts  for  me,  splutterin*  an* 
makin*  noises  an*  p'intin'  at  Jerry,  who  stands 
thar  with  an  air  of  innocence.  The  Colonel's 
upper  lip  hangs  down  queer,  like  an  ant-eater's, 
an*  he  can't  talk.  It's  all  mighty  amazin*. 

" '  What's  all  this  toomult  about  ? '  I  says. 

"  The  short  of  the  riot  is  this :  The  Colonel 
goes  in  for  a  swim,  an*  he  lays  out  his  false  teeth 
that  a-way  on  a  stone.  When  he  comes  for  his 
teeth  they's  shorely  gone,  an'  thar  stands  Jerry 
puttin*  it  on  he's  asleep.  Them  teeth  is  filed 
away  in  Jerry. 

"  Which  the  Colonel  raves  'round  frightful,  an* 
wants  to  kill  Jerry  an*  amputate  him,  an*  scout 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls*  1 7 1 

for  the  teeth.  But  I  won't  have  it.  I'm  goin' 
to  need  Jerry  down  further  on  the  quicksand 
fords  of  the  Canadian ;  an',  as  I  explains,  them 
teeth  is  a  wreck  by  now,  an'  no  good  if  he  get's 
'em  ag'in ;  Jerry  munchin'  of  his  food  powerful. 

"After  a  while  I  rounds  up  the  Colonel  an' 
herds  him  back  to  camp.  Jerry  has  shore  sawed 
off  a  sore  affliction  on  that  tenderfoot  when 
he  takes  in  them  teeth;  I  can  see  that.  His  lip 
hangs  like  a  blacksmith's  apron,  an'  he  can't  talk 
a  little  bit ;  jest  makes  signs  or  motions,  like 
he's  Injun  or  deef. 

"  It's  mebby  two  weeks  later  when  Jerry  gets 
another  shot  at  the  Colonel.  It's  the  evenin* 
after  the  night  Jerry  sneaks  into  camp,  soft-foot 
as  a  coyote,  noses  open  the  grub-box,  an'  eats 
five  bottles  of  whiskey ;  all  we  has.  We've 
pitched  camp,  an'  I've  hobbled  this  Jerry  mule 
an'  his  mate — the  other  wheeler — an'  throwed 
'em  loose,  an'  is  busy  hobblin'  my  nigh-swing 
mule,  when  trouble  begins  fomentin'  between 
my  tenderfoot  an'  Jerry. 

"  The  fact  is  it's  done  fomented.  This  Colonel, 
bein'  some  heated  about  that  whiskey,  an'  plumb 
sore  on  Jerry  on  account  of  them  teeth,  allows  to 
himse'f  he'll  take  a  trace-chain  an'  warp  Jerry 
once  for  luck. 

"If  this  yere  tenderfoot  had  been  free  with  me, 
an'  invited  me  into  his  confidence  touchin'  his 
designs,  I'd  took  a  lariat  an'  roped  an'  throwed 


172 


Woliville. 


Jerry  for  him,  an*  tied  the  felon  down,  an'  let 
the  Colonel  wallop  him  an  hour  or  so  ;  but  the 
Colonel's  full  of  variety  that  a-way,  or  mebby  he 
thinks  I'll  side  with  Jerry.  Anyhow,  he  selects 
a  trace-chain,  an',  without  sayin'  a  word,  dances 
all  cautious  towards  his  prey.  Which  this  is  re- 
laxation for  Jerry. 


"THAT  HE'PLESS  SHORTHORN  STOPS  BOTH  HEELS." 

"  While  that  Colonel  tenderfoot  is  a  rod  away, 
Jerry  turns  his  tail  some  sudden  in  his  direction, 
an'  the  next  instant  that  he'pless  shorthorn  stops 
both  heels  some'ers  about  the  second  button  of 
his  shirt.  That  settles  it ;  the  Colonel's  an  in- 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls.  1 73 

valid  immediate.  I  shorely  has  a  time  with  him 
that  night. 

"  The  next  day  he  can't  walk,  an'  he  can't  ride 
in  the  wagon  'cause  of  the  jolts.  It  all  touches 
my  heart,  an*  at  last  I  ups  an'  make  a  hammock 
outen  a  Navajo  blanket,  which  is  good  an'  strong, 
an'  swings  the  Colonel  to  the  reach  of  the  trail 
wagon. 

"  It's  mostly  a  good  scheme.  Where  the 
ground's  level  the  Colonel  comes  on  all  right  ; 
but  now  an'  then,  when  a  wheel  slumps  into  a 
rut,  the  Colonel  can't  he'p  none  but  smite  the 
ground  where  he's  the  lowest,  an*  it  all  draws 
groans  an'  laments  from  him  a  heap. 

"  One  time,  when  the  Colonel's  agony  makes 
him  groan  speshul  strong,  I  sees  Jerry  bat  his 
eyes  like  he  enjoys  it ;  an'  then  Jerry  mentions 
somethin'  to  his  mate  over  the  chain.  We're 
trottin'  along  the  trail  at  the  time,  an',  bein'  he's 
the  nigh-wheeler — which  is  the  saddle-mule  of 
a  team — I'm  ridin'  Jerry's  compadre,  an'  when 
I  notes  how  Jerry  is  that  joyous  about  it  I  reaches 
across  an'  belts  him  some  abrupt  between  the 
y'ears  with  the  butt  of  a  shot-filled  black-snake. 
It  rather  lets  the  whey  outen  Jerry's  glee,  an' 
he  don't  get  so  much  bliss  from  that  tenderfoot's 
misfortunes  as  he  did. 

"  It  goes  along  all  right  ontil  I  swings  down  to 
the  crossin'  of  the  Canadian.  It's  about  fourth- 
drink  time  in  the  afternoon,  an'  I'm  allowin'  to 


174  Wolfville. 

ford  the  Canadian  that  evenin'  an'  camp  on 
t'other  side.  The  river  is  high  an'  rapid  from 
rain  some'ers  back  on  its  head  waters,  an'  it's 
wide  an'  ugly.  It  ain't  more'n  four  foot  deep, 
but  the  bottom  is  quicksand,  an'  that  false,  if  I 
lets  my  wagons  stop  ten  seconds  anywhere  be- 
tween bank  an*  bank,  I'm  goin'  to  be  shy  wagons 
at  the  close.  I'll  be  lucky  if  I  win  out  the  mules. 
It's  shore  a  hard,  swift  crossin'. 

"  I  swings  down,  as  I  says,  to  the  river's  aige 
with  my  mind  rilled  up  about  the  rush  I've  got 
to  make.  It's  go  through  on  the  run  or  bog 
down.  First  I  settles  in  my  saddle,  gives  the 
outfit  the  word,  an'  then,  pourin'  the  whip  into 
the  two  leaders,  I  sends  the  whole  eight  into  the 
water  on  the  jump.  The  river  is  runnin'  like  a 
scared  wolf,  an'  the  little  lead  mules  hardly 
touches  bottom. 

"  As  the  trail  wagon  takes  the  water,  an'  the 
two  leaders  is  plumb  in  to  the  y'ears,  a  howl  de- 
velops to  the  r'ar.  It's  my  pore  tenderfoot  in 
his  hammock  onder  the  trail  wagon.  He  shrieks 
as  the  water  gets  to  him  ;  an*  it  all  hits  me  like  a 
bullet,  for  I  plumb  overlooks  him,  thinkin'  of 
that  quicksand  crossin'. 

"  It's  shore  too  late  now ;  I'm  in,  an'  I  can't 
stop.  To  make  things  more  complex,  as  the 
water  cuts  off  the  tenderfoot's  yell  like  puffin' 
out  a  candle,  a  little  old  black  mule,  which  is  my 
off-p'inter,  loses  his  feet  an'  goes  down.  I  pours 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls*  1 75 

the  leather  into  the  team  the  harder,  an'  the 
others  soars  into  their  collars  an*  drug  my  black 
p'inter  with  'em ;  only  he's  onder  water.  Of 
course  I  allows  both  the  black  p'inter  an'  the 
Colonel's  shorely  due  to  drown  a  whole  lot. 

"  We  gets  across,  the  seven  other  mules  an'  me  ; 
an'  the  second  he's  skated  out  on  the  sand  on  his 
side,  the  drowned  mule  gets  up  an'  sings  as  tri- 
umphant as  I  ever  hears.  Swimmin'  onder  the 
river  don't  wear  on  him  a  bit. 

"Then  I  goes  scoutin'  for  the  Colonel,  but  he's 
vanished  complete.  Nacherally,  I  takes  him  for 
a  dead-an'-gone  gent ;  an'  figgers  if  some  eddy  or 
counter-current  don't  get  him,  or  he  don't  go 
aground  on  no  sand-bar,  his  fellow-men  will  fish 
him  out  some'ers  between  me  an'  New  Orleans, 
an'  plant  him  an'  hold  services  over  him. 

"  Bein'  as  I  can't  be  of  no  use  where  it's  a 
clean-sweep  play  like  this,  I  dismisses  the  Colonel 
from  my  mind.  After  hobblin'  an'  throwin'  loose 
my  team,  I  lugs  out  the  grub-box  all  sorrowful 
an'  goes  into  camp. 

"  Which  I  should  allers  have  played  the  Col- 
onel for  dead,  if  it  ain't  that  years  later  he  one 
day  comes  wanderin'  into  Wolfville.  He  ain't 
tender  now ;  he's  as  hard  as  moss-agates,  an'  as 
worthless. 

"  I  renews  my  acquaintance  with  him,  an*  he 
tells  how  he  gets  outen  the  Canadian  that  day ; 
but  beyond  that  we  consoomes  a  drink  or  two 


1 76  Wolfville. 

together,  I  rather  passes  him  up.  Thar's  a  heap 
about  him  I  don't  take  to. 

"  The  Colonel  lays  'round  Wolfville  mebby  it's 
a  week,  peerin'  an'  spyin'  about.  He  says  he's 
lookin'  for  an  openin'.  An'  I  reckons  he  is,  for 
at  the  end  of  a  week  he  slaps  up  a  joint  outen 
tent-cloth  an'  fence-boards,  an'  opens  a  dance-hall 
squar'ag'inst  Jim  Hamilton's  which  is  already  thar. 

"  This  yere  alone  is  likely  to  brood  an'  hatch 
trouble ;  but,  as  if  takin'  a  straight  header  into 
Hamilton's  game  ain't  enough,  this  Colonel  of 
mine  don't  get  no  pianer ;  don't  round-up  no 
music  of  his  own  ;  but  stands  pat  an'  pulls  off 
reels,  an'  quadrilles,  an'  green-corn  dances  to 
Hamilton's  music  goin'  on  next  door. 

"  I'm  through  the  Lincoln  County  war,  an'  has 
been  romancin'  about  the  frontier  for  years ;  but 
I  never  tracks  up  on  no  sech  outrage  in  my  life 
as  this  disgraceful  Colonel  openin'  a  hurdy-gurdy 
ag'in  Hamilton's,  an'  maverickin'  his  music  that 
a-way,  an'  dancin'  tharunto. 

"  It's  the  second  night,  an'  Hamilton  con- 
cloods  he'll  see  about  it  some.  He  comes  into 
the  Colonel's  joint,  ca'm  an'  considerate,  an'  gives 
it  out  thar's  goin'  to  be  trouble  if  the  Colonel 
don't  close  his  game  or  play  in  his  own  fiddlers. 

"  *  Which  if  you-all  don't  close  your  game  or 
hunt  out  your  own  music,'  says  Hamilton,  *  I'm 
mighty  likely  to  get  my  six-shooter  an'  close  it 
for  you.' 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls*  177 

" '  See  yere,'  says  my  Colonel — which  he's 
shore  been  learnin'  since  I  parts  with  him  on  the 
Canadian — *  the  first  hold-up  who  comes  foolin' 
'round  to  break  up  a  baile  of  mine,  I'll  shorely 
make  him  hard  to  find.  What  business  you  got 
fillin'  up  my  place  with  your  melodies?  You 
rolls  your  tunes  in  yere  like  you  owns  the  ranch  ; 
an*  then  you  comes  curvin'  over  an'  talks  of  a 
gun-play  'cause,  instead  of  layin'  for  you  for 
that  you  disturbs  my  peace  with  them  harmonies, 
I'm  that  good-nachered  I  yields  the  p'int  an' 
dances  to  'em.  You-all  pull  your  freight,'  says 
the  Colonel,  'or  I'll  fill  you  full  of  lead.' 

"  This  argument  of  the  Colonel's  dazzles  Ham- 
ilton to  that  degree  he  don't  know  whether  he's 
got  the  high  hand  or  not.  He  thinks  a  minute, 
an'  then  p'ints  over  to  the  Red  Light  for  En- 
right  an'  Doc  Peets.  As  he  leaves  the  rival 
dance-hall,  the  Colonel,  who's  callin'  off  his 
dances,  turns  to  the  quadrille,  which  is  pausin* 
pendin'  the  dispoote,  an'  shouts: 

"  '  You  bet  I  knows  my  business  !  Right  hand 
to  your  partner;  grand  right  an'  left ! ' 

44  When  Hamilton  turns  away  they's  shore 
makin'  things  rock  an'  tremble ;  an'  all  to  the 
strains  of  '  The  Arkansaw  Traveller,'  which  is 
bein'  evolved  next  door  at  Hamilton's  expense. 

"'Which  somethin'sgoin'  to  pop,' says  Hamil- 
ton, mighty  ugly  to  Enright  an'  the  rest  of  us, 
as  he  pours  a  drink  into  his  neck.  '  I  allows  in 


178  Wolfville. 

the  interests  of  peace  that  I  canters  over  an'  sees 
you-alls  first.  I  ain't  out  to  shake  up  Wolfville, 
nor  give  Red  Dog  a  chance  to  criticise  us  none 
as  a  disorderly  camp  ;  but  I  asks  you  gents,  as 
citizens  an'  members  of  the  vig'lance  committee, 
whether  I'm  to  stand  an'  let  this  yere  sharp 
round-up  my  music  to  hold  his  revels  by,  an'  put 
it  all  over  me  nightly  ?  ' 

"  *  I  don't  see  no  difference,'  says  Dan  Boggs, 
'  between  this  convict  a-stealin*  of  Hamilton's 
music,  than  if  he  goes  an'  stands  up  Old  Monte 
an'  the  stage.' 

"  *  The  same  bein'  my  idee  exact,'  says  Texas 
Thompson.  'Yere's  Hamilton  caterin'  to  this 
camp  with  a  dance-hall.  It's  a  public  good  thing. 
If  a  gent's  morose,  an'  his  whiskey's  slow  placin' 
itse'f,  he  goes  over  to  Hamilton's  hurdy-gurdy 
an'  finds  relaxation  an'  relief.  Now  yere  comes 
this  stranger — an'  I  makes  it  fifty  dollars  even 
he's  from  Massachusetts — an'  what  does  he  do? 
Never  antes  nor  sticks  in  a  white  chip,  but  pur- 
loins Hamilton's  strains,  an'  pulls  off  his  dances 
tharby.  It's  plumb  wrong,  an'  what  this  party 
needs  is  hangin'.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  says  Cherokee  Hall,  who's 
in  on  the  talk.  '  Hamilton's  all  right,  an'  a 
squar'  man.  All  he  wants  is  jestice.  Now,  while 
I  deems  the  conduct  of  this  stranger  low  an' 
ornery ;  still,  comin'  down  to  the  turn,  he's  on 
his  trail  all  right.  As  this  sharp  says :  Who 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls.  1 79 

gives  Hamilton  any  license  to  go  fillin'  his  hurdy- 
gurdy  full  of  dance-music?  S'pose  this  gent 
would  come  caperin'  over  an'  set  in  a  stack  ag'in 
Hamilton  for  overloadin'  his  joint  with  pianeran' 
fiddle  noises  without  his  consent ;  an'  puttin'  it 
up  he's  out  to  drag  the  camp  if  Hamilton  don't 
cease  ?  The  only  way  Hamilton  gets  'round  that 
kind  of  complaint  is,  he  don't  own  them  walses 
an'  quadrilles  after  they  fetches  loose  from  his 
fiddle  ;  that  they  ain't  his  quadrilles  no  more,  an' 
he's  not  responsible  after  they  stampedes  off  into 
space.' 

"'  That's  straight/  says  Dave  Tutt,  *  you-alls 
can't  run  no  brand  on  melodies.  A  gent  can't 
own  no  music  after  he  cuts  it  loose  that  a-way. 
The  minute  it  leaves  the  bosoms  of  his  fiddles, 
that's  where  he  lets  go.  After  that  it  belongs  to 
any  gent  to  dance  by,  cry  by,  set  by,  or  fight  by, 
as  he  deems  meet  an'  pleasant  at  the  time.' 

"  '  What  do  you-alls  say  ?  '  says  Hamilton  to 
Enright  an'  Peets.  '  Does  this  yere  piece  of  op- 
pression on  a  leadin'  citizen,  perpetrated  by  a 
rank  outsider,  go?  I  shore  waits  for  your  reply 
with  impatience,  for  I  eetches  to  go  back  an* 
shoot  up  this  new  hurdy-gurdy  from  now  till 
sun-up.' 

"  Enright  takes  Doc  Peets  down  by  the  end  of 
the  bar — an'  thar's  no  doubt  about  it,  that  Peets 
is  the  wisest  longhorn  west  of  the  Missoury — an' 
they  has  a  deep  consultation.  We-alls  is  waitirT, 


i8o  Wolfville, 

some  interested,  to  see  what  they  says.  It's 
shore  a  fine  p'int  this  Colonel's  makin'  to  jestify 
an'  back  his  game. 

"  '  Get  a  move  on  you,  Enright  !  '  at  last  says 
Dan  Boggs,  who  is  a  hasty,  eager  man,  who  likes 
action ;  '  get  a  move  on  you,  you  an'  Peets,  an' 
settle  this.  You're  queerin'  the  kyards  an'  de- 
layin'  the  play.' 

"  *  Well,  gents,'  says  Enright  at  last,  comin' 
back  where  we-alls  is  by  the  door,  '  Peets  an'  me 
sees  no  need  decidin'  on  them  questions  about 
who  owns  a  tune  after  said  tune  has  been  played. 
But  thar  is  a  subject,  that  a-way,  which  requires 
consideration  ;  an'  which  most  likely  solves  this 
dance-hall  deadlock.  In  all  trade  matters  in  a 
growin'  camp  like  Wolfville,  it's  better  to  pre- 
serve a  equilibrium.  It's  ag'in  public  interest  to 
have  two  or  three  dance-halls,  or  two  or  three 
saloons,  all  in  a  bunch  that  a-way.  It's  better 
they  be  spraddled  'round  wide  apart,  which  is 
more  convenient.  So  Peets  an'  me  proposes  as  a 
roole  for  this  yere  camp  that  two  hurdy-gurdies 
be  forbid  to  be  carried  on  within  five  hundred 
feet  of  each  other.  As  it  looks  like  nobody 
objects,  we  concloods  it's  adopted.  Nacherally, 
the  last  hurdy-gurdy  up  has  to  move,  which  dis- 
poses of  this  yere  trouble.' 

"  '  Before  I  ends  what  I  has  to  say,'  goes  on 
Enright,  '  I  wants  to  thank  our  townsman,  Mister 
Hamilton,  for  consultin'  of  the  Stranglers  prior 


The  Rival  Dance-Halls.  18 1 

to  a  killin'.  It  shows  he's  a  law-abidin'  gent  an' 
a  credit  to  the  camp.  An'  mighty  likely  he  pro- 
longs his  stay  on  earth.  If  he'd  pranced  in  an' 
skelped  this  maraudin'  stranger,  I  don't  reckon 
we  could  avoid  swingin'  him  at  the  end  of  a  lariat 
without  makin'  a  dangerous  preceedent.  As  it 
is,  his  rival  will  be  routed  an'  his  life  made  screen 
as  yeretofore.' 

" '  As  to  the  execution  of  this  new  roole,'  con- 
cloods  Enright,  '  we  leaves  that  to  Jack  Moore. 
He  will  wait  on  this  party  an'  explain  the  play. 
He  must  up  stakes  an'  move  his  camp  ;  an'  if  he 
calls  on  another  shindig  after  he's  warned,  we-alls 
takes  our  ponies  an'  our  ropes  an'  yanks  his  out- 
fit up  by  the  roots.  A  gent  of  his  enterprise, 
however,  will  come  to  a  dead  halt ;  an'  his  perse- 
cutions of  Hamilton  will  cease.' 

"  '  An'  you-all  calls  this  yere  a  free  American 
outfit !  '  says  my  Colonel,  mighty  scornful,  when 
Jack  Moore  notifies  him.  '  If  I  don't  line  out  for 
t'other  end  of  camp  you-alls  is  allowin'  to  rope 
my  joint  an'  pull  it  down!  Well,  that  lets  me 
out ;  I  quits  you.  I'd  be  shorely  degraded  to  put 
in  my  time  with  any  sech  low-flung  passel  of 
sports.  You-all  may  go  back  an'  tell  your  folks 
that  as  you  leaves  you  hears  me  give  the  call  to 
my  guests,  "  All  promenade  to  the  bar  "  ;  an'  the 
dancin'  is  done.  To-morrow  I  departs  for  Red 
Dog  to  begin  life  anew.  Wolfville  is  too  slow  a 
camp  for  any  gent  with  any  swiftness  to  him.'  ' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Slim  Jim's  Sister* 

"WHICH  thar's  folks  in  this  caravansary  I 
don't  like  none,"  remarked  the  Old  Cattleman,  as 
I  joined  him  one  afternoon  on  the  lawn.  His 
tone  was  as  of  one  half  sullen,  half  hurt,  and  as 
he  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  hotel  behind  us, 
it  was  a  gesture  full  of  scorn.  "Thar's  folks 
thar,  takin'  'em  up  an'  down,  horns,  hide,  tallow, 
an'  beef,  who  ain't  worth  heatin'  a  runnin'-iron  to 
brand." 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  inquired,  as  I  organ- 
ized for  comfort  with  my  back  against  the  elm- 
tree  which  shadowed  us. 

"  No  trouble  at  all,"  replied  my  old  friend 
sourly,  "  leastwise  nothin'  poignant.  It's  that 
yoothful  party  in  the  black  surtoot  who  con>es 
pesterin:  me  a  moment  ago  about  the  West 
bein',  as  he  says,  a  roode  an'  irreligious  outfit." 

"  He's  a  young  preacher,"  I  explained.  "  Pos- 
sibly he  was  moved  by  an  anxiety  touching  your 
soul's  welfare." 

"  Well,  if  he's  out  to  save  souls,"  retorted  the 
old  gentleman,  "he  oughter  whirl  a  bigger  loop. 


Slim  Jim's  Sister*  183 

No,  no,  he  won't  do,"  he  continued,  shaking  his 
head  with  an  air  of  mournful  yet  resentful  deci- 
sion, "  this  yere  gent's  too  narrow ;  which  his 
head  is  built  too  much  the  shape  of  a  quail-trap. 
He  may  do  to  chase  jack-rabbits  an'  sech,  but 
he's  a  size  too  small  for  game  like  me.  Save 
souls,  says  you !  Why,  if  that  onp'lite  young 
person  was  to  meet  a  soul  like  mine  comin'  up 
the  trail,  he'd  shorely  omit  what  to  do  entire ; 
he'd  be  that  stampeded.  He'd  be  some  hard  to 
locate,  I  takes  it,  after  he  meets  up  with  a  soul 
like  mine  a  whole  lot." 

The  Old  Cattleman  made  this  proclamation 
rather  to  himself  than  me,  but  I  could  detect  an 
air  of  pride.  Then  he  went  on : 

"  *  This  yere  West  you  emanates  from,'  says 
this  young  preacher-sharp  to  me  that  a-way, 
'  this  yere  West  you  hails  from  is  roode,  an' 
don't  yield  none  to  religious  inflooences.' 

"  '  Well,'  I  says  back  to  him,  fillin'  my  pipe  at 
the  same  time,  '  I  reckons  you  shorely  can  c'llect 
more  with  a  gun  than  a  contreebution-box  in  the 
West,  if  that's  what  you-all  is  aimin'  at.  But 
if  you  riggers  we  don't  make  our  own  little 
religious  breaks  out  in  Arizona,  stranger,  you 
figgers  a  heap  wrong.  You  oughter  have  heard 
Short  Creek  Dave  that  time  when  he  turns 
'vangelist  an'  prances  into  the  warehouse  back  of 
the  New  York  Store,  an'  shows  Wolfville  she's 
shore  h'ar-hung  an'  breeze-shaken  over  hell  that 


184  Wolfville. 

a-way.  Short  Creek  has  the  camp  all  spraddled 
out  before  he  turns  his  deal-box  up  an'  closes  his 
game.' 

"  *  But  this  yere  Short  Creek  Dave,'  he  remon- 
strates to  me,  '  ain't  no  reg'lar  licensed  divine. 
He  ain't  workin'  in  conjunctions  with  no  shore- 
'nough  'sociation,  I  takes  it.  This  Short  Creek 
person  is  most  likely  one  of  them  irrelevant  ex- 
hortin'  folks,  an'  that  makes  a  difference.  He 
don't  belong  to  no  reg'lar  denom'nation.' 

"  *  That's  troo,  too/  I  says.  *  Short  Creek  ain't 
workin'  with  no  reg'lar  religious  round-up  ;  he's 
sorter  runnin'  a  floatin'  outfit,  criss-crossin'  the 
range,  prowlin'  for  mavericks  an'  strays  on  his 
own  game.  But  what  of  that  ?  He's  shorely 
tyin'  'em  down  an'  brandin'  'em  right  along.' 

" '  Oh,  I  don't  dispoote  none  the  efficacy  of 
your  friend's  work  that  a-way,'  replies  the  young 
preacher-sharp,  *  but  it's  irreg'lar ;  it's  plumb  out 
of  line.  Now  what  you-alls  needs  in  the  West 
is  real  churches,  same  as  we-alls  has  in  the  East.' 

"  '  I  ain't  none  shore  of  that,'  I  says,  an'  I'm 
gettin'  a  little  warm  onder  the  collar  some  with 
them  frills  he  puts  on  ;  '  I  ain't  none  shore.  The 
East  needn't  deem  itse'f  the  only  king  in  the 
deck ;  none  whatever.  The  West  can  afford  the 
usual  rooles  an'  let  all  bets  go  as  they  lays,  an* 
still  get  up  winner  on  the  deal.  I  takes  it  you- 
alls  never  notes  the  West  sendin*  East  for  he'p?' 

"  '  But  that  ain't  the  idee,'  he  urges.     *  Churches 


Slim  Jim's  Sister.  185 

that  a-way  is  the  right  thing.  They  molds  a 
commoonity,  churches  does.  You  b'ars  witness 
yourse'f  that  where  churches  exists  the  commoon- 
ity is  the  most  orderly  an'  fuller  of  quietood  an' 
peace.' 

"  '  Not  necessarily  I  don't,'  I  replies  back,  for 
I'm  goin'  to  play  my  hand  out  if  it  gets  my  last 
chip,  '  not  necessarily.  What  I  b'ars  witness  to 
is  that  where  the  commoonity  is  the  most  orderly 
that  a-way  an'  fuller  of  quietood  an'  peace,  the 
churches  exists.' 

"'Which  I'm  shorely  some  afraid,'  he  says, — 
an'  his  looks  shows  he's  gettin'  a  horror  of  me, 
— '  you  belongs  to  a  perverse  generation.  You- 
all  is  vain  of  your  own  evil-doin'.  Look  at  them 
murders  that  reddens  the  West,  an'  then  sit  yere 
an*  tell  me  it  don't  need  no  inflooences.' 

'"Them  ain't  murders,'  I  answers;  'them's 
killin's.  An'  as  for  inflooences,  if  you-all  don't 
reckon  the  presence  of  a  vig'lance  committee  in  a 
camp  don't  cause  a  gent  to  pause  an'  ponder 
none  before  he  pulls  his  gun,  you  dwells  in 
ignorance.  However,  I'm  yere  to  admit,  I  don't 
discern  no  sech  sin-encrusted  play  in  a  killin' 
when  the  parties  breaks  even  at  the  start,  an' 
both  gents  is  workin'  to  the  same  end  unanimous. 
It  does  some  folks  a  heap  of  good  to  kill  'em  a 
lot.' 

"  It's  at  this  p'int  the  young  preacher-sharp 
pulls  his  freight,  an*  I  observes,  by  the  way  he 


i86  Wolfville. 

stacks  me  up  with  his  eyes  that  a-way,  he  allows 
mebby  I'm  locoed." 

The  Old  Cattleman  said  no  more  for  a  moment, 
but  puffed  at  his  cob  pipe  in  thought  and  silence. 
I  had  no  notion  of  involving  myself  in  any  com- 
bat of  morals  or  theology,  so  I  did  not  invade 
his  mood.  At  last  I  suggested  in  a  half-tone  of 
inoffensive  sympathy  that  the  West  was  no  doubt 
much  misunderstood. 

"  Life  there,"  I  remarked,  "  amid  new  and 
rough  conditions  must  be  full  of  hardship  and 
tragedy." 

This  vague  arrow  in  the  air  had  the  effect  of 
sending  the  old  fellow  off  at  a  tangent.  His  bent 
was  evidently  discursive,  and  all  thoughts  of  his 
late  religious  controversy  seemed  to  pass  from  his 
mind. 

"  Full  of  hardship  an'  tragedy  is  your  remark," 
he  retorted,  **  an'  I  joins  you  tharin.  Take  them 
disasters  that  pounces  on  Slim  Jim.  What  hap- 
pens in  the  case  of  this  yere  Slim  Jim  tender- 
foot," the  old  fellow  continued  as  a  damp  gleam 
of  sympathy  shone  in  his  eye,  "  is  both  hardship 
an'  tragedy.  Which  of  course  thar's  a  mighty 
sight  of  difference.  A  hardship  a  gent  lives 
through  ;  but  it's  a  tragedy  when  his  light's  put 
out.  An'  as  Slim  Jim  don't  live  through  this 
none,  it's  nacherally  a  tragedy  that  a-way. 

"  I  frequent  sees  bad  luck  to  other  folks,  as  well 
as  comin'  to  me  personal,  in  the  years  I  inhabits 


Slim  Jim's  Sister.  187 

the  grass  country,  but  this  was  shorely  the  tough- 
est. It  even  overplays  anythin'  Rainbow  Sam 
ever  is  ag'inst ;  an'  the  hard  luck  of  Rainbow 
Sam  is  a  proverb  of  Arizona. 

"  '  Which  I  reckons  I  was  foaled  with  a  copper 
on  me/  says  this  Rainbow  Sam  to  Enright  one 
day.  '  In  all  my  born  days  I  never  makes  a 
killin' — never  gets  up  winner  once.  I  was  foaled 
a  loser,  an'  I'll  keep  a-losin'  ontil  this  yere  mal- 
ady— which  it's  consumption — which  has  me  in 
charge  delivers  me  to  the  angels  an'  gets  its  re- 
ceipt.' 

"  It's  a  mockery  what  transpires  touchin'  this 
Rainbow  Sam.  Jest  as  he  states,  the  consump- 
tion's got  him  treed  an'  out  on  a  limb.  Doc 
Peets  says,  himse'f,  nothin'  can  he'p  him  ;  an' 
when  Peets  quits  a  little  thing  like  consumption 
an'  shoves  his  chair  back,  you-alls  can  gamble  a 
gent's  health,  that  a-way,  is  on  a  dead  kyard. 

"  I  recalls  how  Rainbow  Sam  dies  ;  which  he 
rides  out  into  eternity  easy  an'  painless.  We-alls 
is  into  a  poker-game  one  night — that  is,  five  of 
us — when  Doc  Peets  is  called  away. 

"  '  See  yere,  Rainbow,'  says  Peets  to  Rainbow 
Sam,  who's  penniless  an'  tharfore  lookin'  on  ; 
'  you  never  has  a  morsel  of  luck  in  your  life. 
Now,  yere  :  You  play  my  hand  an'  chips  awhile. 
I'm  on  velvet  for  three  hundred  an'  fifty,  an*  I'd 
as  soon  you'd  lose  it  into  the  game  as  any  sport 
I  knows.  An'  to  rouse  your  moral  nacher  I 


i88  Wolfville. 

wants  to  tell  you,  whatever  you  rakes  in  you 
keeps.  Now  thar's  luck  at  the  jump  ;  you  can't 
lose  an'  you  may  win,  so  set  in  yere.  Napoleon 
never  has  half  the  show.' 

"  Peets  goes  away  for  an  hour  about  somethin', 
an'  Rainbow  Sam  takes  his  seat ;  an',  merely  to 
show  how  one  gent  outlucks  another,  while  Peets 
has  had  the  luck  of  dogs  it's  that  profuse  an' 
good,  it  looks  like  the  best  Rainbow  can  get  is 
an  even  break.  For  half  an  hour  he  wins  an'  he 
loses  about  equal  ;  an'  he's  shore  tryin'  hard  to 
win,  too. 

"  '  If  I  takes  in  a  couple  of  hundred  or  so,' 
says  this  Rainbow  to  me,  *  I  allows  I'll  visit  my 
folks  in  the  States  once  for  luck.' 

"  But  he  never  visits  them  folks  he  adverts  to. 
It's  on  Boggs's  deal,  an'  he's  throwin'  the  kyards 
'round  when  Rainbow's  took  bad.  His  consump- 
tion sorter  mutinies  onto  him  all  at  once.  He's 
got  the  seat  on  the  left  of  Boggs,  too, — got  the 
age. 

"  '  Play  my  hand,'  he  says  to  Hamilton,  who's 
stepped  in  from  the  dance-hall;  *  play  my  hand, 
Jim,  till  I  feels  a  little  better.  I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  moment.  Barkeep,  deal  me  some  whiskey.' 

"  So  Rainbow  walks  over  to  the  bar,  an'  Ham- 
ilton picks  up  his  kyards.  I  notes  that  Rainbow 
steps  off  that  time  some  tottersome ;  but  he's  so 
plumb  weak  that  a-way,  cats  is  robust  to  him  ; 
an'  so  I  deems  nothin'  tharof.  I'm  skinnin'  my 


Slim  Jim's  Sister.  189 

kyards  a  bit  interested  anyhow,  bein'  in  the  hole 
myse'f. 

•  "  Everybody  comes  in  this  deal,  an'  when  the 
chips  is  in  the  center — this  yere's  before  the 
draw — Hamilton,  speakin'  up  for  Rainbow,  says  : 

"  '  These  yere's  Doc  Peets's  chips  anyhow  ?  ' 

"'Which  they  shorely  be,'  says  Boggs,  'so 
play  'em  merciless,  'cause  Peets  is  rich/ 

"  '  That's  what  I  asks  for,'  says  Hamilton,  '  for 
I  don't  aim  to  make  no  mistakes  with  pore  Rain- 
bow's money.' 

"'That's  all  right,'  says  Boggs,  'dump  'em  in. 
If  you-all  lose,  it's  Peets's;  if  you  win,  it's  Rain- 
bow's.' 

"  '  Play  'em  game  an'  liberal,  Old  Man,'  says 
Rainbow  over  by  the  bar, — an'  it  strikes  me  at 
the  time  his  tones  is  weak  an'  queer ;  but  bein' 
as  I  jest  then  notes  a  third  queen  in  my  hand,  I 
don't  have  no  chance  to  dwell  on  the  fact.  '  Play 
'em  game  an'  free,'  says  Rainbow  ag'in.  *  Free 
as  the  waters  of  life.  Win  or  lose,  she's  all  the 
same  a  hundred  year  from  now.' 

"  Hamilton  takes  another  look  an'  then  raises 
the  ante  a  hundred  dollars.  This  yere  is  table 
stakes ;  this  game  was ;  an'  the  stakes  is  five 
hundred. 

"'Which  I  plays  this,'  says  Hamilton,  as  he 
comes  up  with  the  hundred  raise,  '  the  same  as  I 
would  for  myse'f,  which  the  same  means  plen- 
teous an'  free  as  a  king.' 


190  Wolfvilk. 

"  Thar's  three  of  us  who  stays,  one  of  the 
same  bein'  me.  I  allers  recalls  it  easy,  'cause  it 
frost-bites  my  three  queens  for  over  three  hun- 
dred dollars  before  the  excitement  dies  away. 
Boggs,  who's  so  vociferous  recent  about  Hamil- 
ton playin'  wide  open,  stays  out ;  not  havin'  as 
good  as  nine-high. 

"  On  the  draw  Hamilton  allows  Rainbow's 
hand  needs  one  kyard,  an'  he  gets  it.  I  takes 
one  also  ;  the  same  bein'  futile,  so  far  as  he'pin' 
my  hand  goes ;  an'  the  others  takes  kyards  vari- 
ous. 

"  Thar's  only  one  raise,  an'  that's  when  it  gets 
to  Hamilton.  He  sets  in  a  little  over  two  hun- 
dred dollars,  bein'  the  balance  of  the  stake ; 
an'  two  of  us  is  feeble-minded  enough  to  call. 
What  does  he  have?  Well,  it's  ample  for  our 
ondoin'  that  a-way.  It's  a  straight  flush  of 
diamonds ;  jack  at  the  head  of  the  class.  It 
shorely  carries  off  the  pot  like  it's  a  whirlwind. 
As  near  as  I  can  measure,  Hamilton  claws  off 
with  about  six  hundred  dollars  for  Rainbow  on 
that  one  hand. 

"  '  Yere  you  be,  Rainbow  ! '  shouts  Boggs. 
'  Come  a-runnin' !  It's  now  you  visits  them  re- 
lations ;  you  makes  a  killin'  at  last.' 

"  It  turns  out  some  late  for  Rainbow  though. 
Thar's  no  reply  to  Boggs's  talk,  an'  when  we- 
alls  goes  over  to  him  where  he's  set  down  by  the 
end  of  the  bar  thar,  with  his  arm  on  a  monte- 


Slim  Jim's  Sister.  191 

table,  an'  his  chin  on  his  shirt,  Rainbow  Sam  is 
dead. 

" '  Which  I  regrets,'  says  Doc  Peets  when  he 
returns,  '  that  Rainbow  don't  stay  long  enough 
to  onderstand  how  luck  sets  his  way  at  last.  It 
most  likely  comforts  him  an'  makes  his  goin'  out 
more  cheerful.' 

"  '  It's  a  good  sign,  though,'  says  Cherokee 
Hall,  '  that  straight  flush  is.  Which  it  shows 
Rainbow  strikes  a  streak  of  luck  ;  an'  mebby  it 
lasts  long  enough  to  get  him  by  the  gates  above 
all  right.  That's  all  I  asks  when  my  time  comes  ; 
that  I  dies  when  I'm  commencin'  a  run  of  luck.' 

"Oh!  about  this  Slim  Jim  tenderfoot  an'  his 
tragedy !  Do  you  know  I  plumb  overlooks  him. 
I  gets  trailed  off  that  a-way  after  pore  old  Rain- 
bow Sam,  an'  Slim  Jim  escapes  my  mem'ry  com- 
plete. 

"  Which  the  story  of  this  gent,  even  the  little 
we-alls  knows,  is  a  heap  onusual.  No  one,  onless 
he's  the  postmaster,  ever  does  hear  his  name. 
He  sorter  ha'nts  about  Red  Dog  an'  Wolfville 
indiscriminate  for  mighty  nigh  a  year  ;  an'  they 
calls  him  'Slim  Jim  '  with  us,  an'  'The  Tender- 
foot '  in  Red  Dog  ;  but,  as  I  says,  what's  his  real 
name  never  does  poke  up  its  head. 

"  Whatever  brings  this  yere  Slim  Jim  into  the 
cow  country  is  too  boggy  a  crossin'  for  me. 
Thar  ain't  a  thing  he  can  do  or  learn  to.  We- 
alls  has  him  on  one  round-up,  an'  it's  cl'ar  from 


192  Wolfville. 

the  jump  he  ain't  meant  by  Providence  for  the 
cattle  business.  The  meekest  bronco  in  the 
bunch  bucks  him  off ;  an'  actooally  he's  that 
timid  he's  plumb  afraid  of  ponies  an'  cattle 
both. 

"  We-alls  fixes  Slim  Jim's  saddle  with  buckin'- 
straps ;  an'  even  fastens  a  roll  of  blankets  across 
the  saddle-horn  ;  but  it  ain't  enough.  Nothin' 
bar  tyin'  Slim  Jim  into  the  saddle,  like  the  hoss- 
back  Injuns  does  to  papooses,  could  save  him. 

"  An'  aside  from  nacheral  awk'ardness  an*  a 
light  an'  fitful  seat  in  a  saddle,  it  looks  like  this 
Slim  Jim  has  baleful  effects  on  a  bronco.  To 
show  you  :  One  mornin'  we  ropes  up  for  him  a 
pony  which  has  renown  for  its  low  sperits.  It 
acts,  this  yere  pony  does,  like  it's  suffered  some 
disapp'intment  which  blights  it  an'  breaks  its 
heart  ;  an'  no  amount  of  tightenin'  of  the  back 
cinch  ;  not  even  spurrin'  of  it  in  the  shoulder  an' 
neck  like  playful  people  who's  out  for  a  circus 
does,  is  ever  known  to  evolve  a  buck-jump  outen 
him,  he's  that  sad.  Which  this  is  so  well  known, 
the  pony's  name  is  '  Remorse.' 

"As  I  says,  merely  to  show  the  malignant 
spell  this  yere  Slim  Jim  casts  over  a  bronco,  we- 
alls  throws  him  onto  this  Remorse  pony  one 
mornin*. 

"'Which  if  you  can't  get  along  with  that 
cayouse,'  remarks  Jack  Moore  at  the  time,  '  I 
reckons  it's  foreordained  you-all  has  to  go  afoot.' 


Slim  Jim's  Sister*  193 

"  An'  that's  how  it  turns  out.  No  sooner  is 
Slim  Jim  in  the  saddle  than  that  Remorse  pony 
arches  his  back  like  a  hoop,  sticks  his  nose  be- 
tween his  knees,  an'  gives  way  to  sech  a  fit  of 
real  old  worm-fence  buckin'  as  lands  Slim  Jim  on 
his  sombrero,  an'  makes  expert  ponies  simply 
stand  an'  admire. 

"That's  the  last  round-up  Slim  Jim  attempts; 
workin'  cattle  he  says  himse'f  is  too  deep  a  game 
for  him,  an'  he  never  does  try  no  more.  So  he 
hangs  about  Wolfville  an'  Red  Dog  alternate, 
turnin'  little  jim-crow  tricks  for  the  express  com- 
pany, or  he'pin'  over  to  the  stage  company's 
corrals,  an'  sorter  manages  to  live. 

"  Now  an'  then  some  party  who's  busy  drinkin', 
an'  tharfore  hasn't  time  for  faro,  an'  yet  is 
desirous  the  same  be  played,  stakes  Slim  Jim 
ag'inst  the  game ;  an'  it  happens  at  times  he 
makes  a  small  pick-up  that  a-way.  But  his  means 
of  livelihood  is  shorely  what  you-alls  would  call 
precar'ous. 

"  An'  yet,  as  I  sends  my  mind  back  over  the 
trail,  I  never  knows  of  nothin'  bad  this  yere 
Slim  Jim  does.  You  needn't  go  inferrin'  none, 
from  his  havin'  a  terror  of  steers  an'  broncos 
that  a-way,  that  he's  timid  plumb  through. 
Thar's  reason  to  deem  him  game  when  he's  up 
ag'inst  mere  man. 

"Once,  so  they  tells  the  story,  Curly  Bill 
rounds  up  this  Slim  Jim  in  a  Red  Dog  hurdy- 


194  Wolfville. 

gurdy  an'  concloods  to  have  some  entertainment 
with  him. 

"  *  Dance,  you  shorthorn  ! '  says  this  yere  Curly 
Bill,  yankin'  out  his  six.-shooter  an'  p'intin'  it 
mighty  sudden  at  Slim  Jim's  foot;  'shuffle 
somethin'  right  peart  now,  or  you-all  emerges 
shy  a  toe.' 

"  Does  this  Slim  Jim  dance  ?  Never  cavorts 
a  step.  At  the  first  move  he  swarms  all  over 
this  Curly  Bill  like  a  wild-cat,  makes  him  drop 
his  gun,  an'  sends  him  out  of  the  hurdy-gurdy 
on  a  canter.  That's  straight ;  that's  the  painful 
fact  in  the  case  of  Curly  Bill,  who  makes  over- 
gay  with  the  wrong  gent. 

"  Later,  mebby  an  hour,  so  the  party  says  who 
relates  it  to  me,  Curly  Bill  sends  back  word  into 
the  hurdy-gurdy,  tellin'  the  barkeep,  if  his 
credit's  good  after  sech  vicissitoodes,  to  treat  the 
house.  He  allows  the  drinks  is  on  him,  an*  that 
a  committee  can  find  him  settin'  on  the  post- 
office  steps  sorter  goin'  over  himse'f  for  fractures, 
if  it's  held  necessary  for  him  to  be  present  when 
the  drinks  is  took. 

"  Which  of  course  any  gent's  credit  is  good  at 
the  bar  that  a-way ;  an'  so  a  small  delegation  of 
three  ropes  up  this  yere  Curly  Bill  an'  brings 
him  back  to  the  hurdy-gurdy,  where  he  gets  his 
gun  ag'in,  an'  Slim  Jim  an'  him  makes  up. 

"  '  Which  I  renounces  all  idee  of  ever  seein' 
you  dance  some,'  says  Curly  Bill,  when  he  an' 


Slim  Jim's  Sister*  195 

Jim  shakes  ;  '  an'  I  yereby  marks  your  moccasins 
plumb  off  my  list  of  targets.' 

"  Everybody's  pleased  at  this ;  an'  the  barkeep 
is  delighted  speshul,  as  one  of  them  reeconcilia- 
tions  that  a-way  is  mighty  condoosive  to  the  sale 
of  nose-paint.  I'm  yere  to  remark,  if  thar  ain't 
no  more  reeconciliations  on  earth,  an'  everybody 
stands  pat  on  them  hatreds  an'  enmities  of  his, 
whiskey-drinkin'  falls  off  half. 

"  I  only  su'gest  this  turn-up  with  Curly  Bill  to 
'lustrate  that  it's  about  as  I  says,  an'  that  while 
Slim  Jim's  reluctant  an'  hesitatin'  in  the  pres- 
ence of  wild  steers,  an'  can't  adhere  to  a  pony 
much,  this  yere  girlishness  don't  extend  to  men 
none ;  which  last  he  faces  prompt  an'  willin'  as  a 
lion. 

"  Thar's  times  when  I  shorely  ponders  the 
case  of  this  Slim  Jim  a  mighty  sight,  'cause  he 
keeps  strikin'  me  as  a  good  gent  gone  bad,  an' 
as  bein'  the  right  gent  in  the  wrong  place. 

"  *  This  pore  maverick  is  plumb  Eastern,  that's 
all,'  says  Enright  one  day,  while  he's  discussin' 
of  this  Slim  Jim.  '  He  ain't  to  blame,  but  he 
ain't  never  goin'  to  do,  none  whatever,  out  yere. 
He  can't  no  more  get  used  to  Arizona  than  one 
of  the  Disciples,  an'  he  might  camp  'round  for 
years.' 

"  It's  mebby  hard  onto  a  year  when  along 
comes  the  beginnin'  of  the  end  as  far  as  this 
Slim  Jim's  concerned,  only  we-alls  don't  know  it. 


196  Wolfville. 

The  postmaster  says  afterward  he  gets  a  letter; 
an'  by  what's  found  on  the  remainder  it  looks 
like  the  postmaster's  right,  an'  this  letter  sets 
him  goin'  wrong.  I  allers  allows,  after  he  gets 
this  missive,  that  he  sees  the  need  of  money  that 
a-way  an'  plenty  of  it ;  an'  that  it's  got  to  come 
quick. 

"  Most  likely  he's  been  bluffin*  some  parties  in 
the  East  about  how  rich  he  is  an'  how  lucrative 
he's  doin', — sech  bluffs  bein'  common  in  the 
West, — an'  now  along  comes  events  an'  folks 
he's  fooled,  an'  his  bluff  is  called. 

"When  it  arrives,  none  of  us  knows  of  this 
yere  letter  the  postmaster  mentions,  an'  which  is 
later  read  by  all ;  but  it's  about  that  time  Slim 
Jim  acts  queer  an'  locoed.  He's  flustered  an' 
stampeded  about  somethin',  we-alls  notes  that ; 
an'  Dave  Tutt  even  forgets  himse'f  as  a  gent  so 
far  as  to  ask  Slim  Jim  what's  up. 

"  '  Which  you  looks  oneasy  these  autumn 
days,' says  Tutt  to  Slim  Jim.  'What's  wrong?' 

"  '  Nothin','  says  Slim  Jim,  lookin'  a  bit  woozy, 
'  nothin'  wrong.  A  friend  of  mine  is  likely  to 
show  up  yere  ;  that's  all.' 

" f  Which  he  has  the  air  of  a  fugitive  from  jes- 
tice  when  he  says  it,'  observes  Tutt,  when  he 
speaks  of  it  after  all's  over ;  '  though  jedgin'  by 
the  party  who's  on  his  trail  that  time  I  don't 
reckon  he's  done  nothin'  neither.' 

"  It's  shorely   the  need  of   money    drives  this 


Slim  Jim's  Sister*  197 

Slim  Jim  to  turnin'  route-agent  an'  go  holdin'  up 
the  stage,  for  the  evenin'  he  quits  camp  he  says 
to  Cherokee  Hall :  *  S'pose  I  asks  you-all  to  lend 
me  money,  quite  a  bundle,  say,  would  you  do  it  ?  ' 

"  '  I  turns  faro  for  my  money,'  says  Cherokee ; 
'  which  I  merely  mentions  it  to  show  I  comes 
honestly  by  my  roll.  As  to  borrowin'  of  me, 
you-all  or  any  gent  in  hard  lines  can  get  my 
money  by  showin'  he  needs  it  worse  than  I  do ; 
an'  to  encourage  you  I  might  say  I  don't  need 
money  much.  So,  go  on  an'  tell  me  the  news 
about  yourse'f,  an'  if  it's  as  bad  as  the  way  you 
looks,  I  reckons  I'll  have  to  stake  you,  even  if 
it  takes  half  my  pile.'  Tharupon  Cherokee  urges 
Slim  Jim  to  onfold  his  story. 

"But  Slim  Jim  gets  shy  an'  won't  talk  or  tell 
Cherokee  what's  pesterin'  him,  or  how  much 
money  he  needs. 

"  '  No,'  he  says,  after  thinkin'  a  little,  '  I  never 
begs  a  stake  yet,  an'  I  never  will.  Anyhow  I 
sees  another  way  which  is  better.' 

"  Countin'  noses  afterwards,  it's  probably  this 
talk  with  Cherokee  is  the  last  Slim  Jim  has  be- 
fore he  breaks  over  into  the  hills  on  the  hunt  for 
money.  He  goes  afoot,  too  ;  for  he  don't  own 
no  pony,  an'  he  couldn't,  as  I  explains  previous, 
stay  on  him  if  he  does. 

"  But  he  fixes  himse'f  with  a  Winchester  which 
he  gets  from  the  stage-company  people  themse'fs 
on  a  talk  he  makes  about  takin'  some  reecreation 


i9S  Wolfville. 

with  the  coyotes,  an'  p'ints  straight  over  into 
Rawhide  Canyon, — mebby  it's  six  miles  from 
camp.  When  the  stage  gets  along  an  hour  later, 
this  Slim  Jim's  made  himse'f  a  mask  with  a  hand- 
kerchief, an'  is  a  full-fledged  hold-up  which  any 
express  company  could  be  proud  to  down.  Old 
Monte  relates  what  happens  in  the  canyon,  'cause 
from  where  he's  stuck  up  on  the  box  he  gets  a 
better  view. 

" '  Yere's  how  this  happens,'  says  Old  Monte, 
while  renooin'  his  yooth  with  Red  Light  licker 
after  he's  got  in.  *  It's  a  little  hazy  in  the  can- 
yon, comin'  evenin'  that  a-way,  an'  my  eyes  is 
watery  with  the  shootin'  goin'  on,  an'  I  tharfore 
don't  say  I  notes  things  none  minoote ;  but  as 
near  as  I  can,  you  gets  the  story. 

"  *  Thar's  only  one  passenger,  an'  she's  a  wo- 
man. Which  for  that  matter  she's  a  beautiful 
girl,  with  eyes  like  a  buck  antelope's;  but  bein' 
she's  layin'  over  to  the  stage  station  defunct 
right  now,  along  with  this  yere  Slim  Jim,  I  don't 
dwell  none  on  how  she  looks.' 

"  '  When  I  pulls  out  from  Tucson  I  has  this 
yere  young  female  inside;  an'  the  company  puts 
two  Wells-Fargo  gyards  on  top  of  the  coach, 
the  same  bein'  the  first  time  in  months.  These 
Wells-Fargo  parties  ain't  along  for  hold-ups,  but 
jest  'cause  they  has  business  over  yere,  an'  so 
comes  by  stage  same  as  other  gents. 

"  '  It  all  goes  smooth  ontil   I'm  rattlin'  along 


Slim  Jim's  Sister.  1 99 

in  Rawhide  Canyon  not  half-a-dozen  miles  from 
where  we-alls  is  now  drinkin'  all  free  an'  amiable, 
like  life's  nothin'  but  sunshine. 

" '  The  first  p'inter  I  has  that  I'm  up  ag'inst  it, 
bang!  goes  a  Winchester,  an'  throws  my  off 
leader  dead  ag'inst  the  trail.  Thar's  no  goin' 
'round  the  dead  hoss,  an'  bar  the  nacheral  rarin' 
an'  pitchin'  of  the  other  five  on  beholdin'  of  the 
ontimely  end  of  their  companion  that  a-way,  the 
whole  business  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  '  "  Hold  up  your  hands  !  "  says  a  voice  up  the 
rocks  on  one  side. 

"  '  My  hands  is  already  up,  for  I'm  an  old 
stage-driver,  gents,  an'  you-alls  can  gamble  I 
knows  my  trade.  I'm  hired  to  drive.  It  ain't 
no  part  of  my  game  to  fight  hold-ups  an'  stand 
off  route-agents  that  a-way,  an'  get  shot  dead  for 
it  by  their  pards  the  next  trip  ;  so,  as  I  says,  the 
moment  that  Winchester  goes  off,  I  clamps  my 
fingers  back  of  my  head  an'  sets  thar.  Of  course 
I  talks  back  at  this  hold-up  a  heap  profane,  for  I 
don't  aim  to  have  the  name  of  allowin'  any  gent 
to  rustle  my  stage  an'  me  not  cuss  him  out. 

"  *  But  these  yere  Wells-Fargo  sharps,  they 
never  holds  up  their  hands.  That's  nacheral 
enough,  for  them  gents  is  hired  to  fight,  an'  this 
partic'lar  trip  thar's  full  six  thousand  dollars  to 
go  to  war  over. 

"With  the  first  shot  the  Wells-Fargo  gents— 
they  was  game  as  goats  both  of  'em — slides  offen 


200  Wolfville. 

the  coach  an'  takes  to  shootin'.  The  guns  is 
makin'  a  high  old  rattle  of  it,  an'  I'm  hopin'  the 
hold-up  won't  get  to  over-shootin'  an'  drill  me, 
when  the  first  casooalty  occurs.  One  of  the 
Wells-Fargo  sports  gets  a  bullet  plumb  through 
his  frame,  an'  is  dead  an'  out  in  the  crack  of  a 
whip. 

" '  It  looks  like  the  hold-up  sees  him  tumble, 
for  it's  then  he  cuts  loose  a  whoop,  jumps  down 
onto  the  trail  an'  charges.  He  comes  a-shootin', 
too,  an'  the  way  the  lead  an'  fire  fetches  forth 
from  that  Winchester  he's  managin'  shore  re- 
minds me  of  them  Roman  candles  last  July. 

" '  All  this  yere  don't  take  ten  seconds.  An' 
it  don't  last  ten  seconds  more.  As  my  hold-up 
comes  chargin'  an'  shootin'  towards  the  stage,  I 
overhears  a  scream  inside,  an'  the  next  moment 
that  young  female  passenger  opens  the  door  an* 
comes  scamperin'  out. 

" '  If  she  tries  she  couldn't  have  selected  no 
worse  epock.  She  hits  the  ground,  an'  the  second 
she  does — for  I'm  lookin'  over  at  her  at  the  time 
— she  stops  one  of  that  hold-up's  bullets  an'  goes 
down  with  a  great  cry. 

" '  It's  on  me,  gents,  at  this  p'int  to  take  all 
resks  an'  go  down  an'  look-out  the  play  for  the 
girl.  But  I  never  gets  a  chance,  an'  it's  as  well  I 
don't  ;  for  towards  the  last  the  shootin'  of  the 
remainin'  Wells-Fargo  person  is  reckless  an'  in- 
ordinate. It's  plumb  reedundant  ;  that  shootin' 


Slim  Jim's  Sister.  201 

is.  But  as  I  remarks,  I  never  has  no  occasion  to 
go  to  the  girl  ;  for  as  I  feels  the  impulse  I  hears 
the  hold-up  shout : 

"  '  "  God  !  it's  Mary  !     It's  my  sister  !  " 

"'Thar's  a  letter  on  him  we  finds  later,  which 
shows  this  statement  about  my  passenger  bein' 
his  sister  is  troo  ;  an'  that  she's  p'intin'  out  when 
downed,  now  they's  orphans — which  the  letter 
states  their  father's  jest  cashed  in — to  come  an' 
keep  house  for  him.  As  the  hold-up  makes  this 
yere  exclamation  about  the  girl  bein'  his  relative 
that  a-way,  his  Winchester  goes  a-rattlin'  onto 
the  trail  an'  he  gathers  her  in  his  arms.  How- 
ever, he  don't  last  longer  than  a  drink  of  whiskey 
now.  He  don't  no  more'n  lift  her  up,  before 
even  he  kisses  her,  the  remainin'  Wells-Fargo 
gent  downs  him,  an'  the  riot's  over  complete. 

" '  Three  killed  an'  none  wounded  is  how  re- 
sults stacks  up  ;  an'  after  me  an'  the  live  Wells- 
Fargo  gent  cl'ars  the  dead  leader  outen  the  trail, 
we-alls  lays  out  the  remainders  inside  all  peace- 
ful, an'  comes  a-curvin'  on  to  Wolfville.  It's 
then,  as  we  puts  'em  in  the  coach,  I  sees  that  my 
hold-up's  that  onfortunate  felon,  Slim  Jim. 
Which  I  was  shorely  astonished.  I  says  to  the 
Wells-Fargo  gent,  as  we  looks  at  Slim  Jim  : 

"  *  "  Pard,  the  drinks  is  due  from  me  on  this. 
If  I  has  a  week  to  guess  in,  I'd  never  said  *  Slim 
Jim.'" 


CHAPTER  XVL 
Jaybird  Bob's  Joke: 

"WHATEVER  makes  this  yere  Jaybird  Bob  be- 
lieve he's  a  humorist,"  said  the  Old  Cattleman 
one  afternoon  as  we  slowly  returned  from  a  walk, 
"  whatever  it  is  misleads  him  to  so  deem  him- 
se'f,  is  shorely  too  many  for  me.  Doc  Peets 
tells  him  himse'f  one  day  he's  plumb  wrong. 

"'  You-all's  nacherally  a  somber,  morose  party,' 
says  Doc  Peets  this  time,  '  an'  nothin'  jocose  or 
jocund  about  you.  Your  disp'sition,  Jaybird, 
don't  no  more  run  to  jokes  than  a  prairie-dog's." 

"  '  Which  I  would  admire  to  know  why  not? ' 
says  Jaybird  Bob. 

"  '  Well,'  goes  on  Doc  Peets,  '  you  thinks  too 
slow — too  much  like  a  cow  in  a  swamp.  Your 
mind  moves  sluggish  that  a-way,  an'  sorter  sinks 
to  the  hocks  each  step.  If  you  was  born  to  be 
funny  your  intellects  would  be  limber  an'  frivo- 
lous.' 

"  *  Bein'  all  this  is  personal  to  me,'  says  Jay- 
bird Bob,  '  I  takes  leave  to  regard  you  as  wrong. 
My  jokes  is  good,  high-grade  jokes;  an'  when 
you-all  talks  of  me  bein'  morose,  it's  a  mere  case 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke*  203 

of  bluff.'  An'  so  Jaybird  goes  on  a-holdin  of 
himse'f  funny  ontil  we-alls  has  him  to  bury. 

"  No ;  Jaybird  ain't  his  shore-'nough  name  ; 
it's  jest  a  handle  to  his  'dentity,  so  we-alls  picks 
it  up  handy  and  easy.  Jaybird's  real  name  is 
Graingerford, — Poindexter  Graingerford.  But 
the  same  is  cumbersom  an'  onwieidy  a  whole  lot ; 
so  when  he  first  trails  into  Wolfville  we-alls  con- 
siders among  ourse'fs  an'  settles  it's  a  short  cut  to 
call  him  *  Jaybird  Bob,'  that  a-way.  An'  we  does. 

"  It's  on  the  spring  round-up  this  yere  Jaybird 
first  develops  that  he  regards  himse'f  witty.  It's 
in  the  mornin'  as  we-alls  has  saddled  up  an'  lines 
out  to  comb  the  range  roundabout  for  cattle. 
Thar's  a  tenderfoot  along  whose  name  is  Todd, 
an',  as  he's  canterin'  off,  Jaybird  comes  a-curvin' 
up  on  his  bronco  an'  reaches  over  an'  tails  this 
shorthorn's  pony. 

"  What's  tailin'  a  pony  ?  It's  ridin'  up  from 
the  r'ar  an'  takin'  a  half-hitch  on  your  saddle- 
horn  with  the  tail  of  another  gent's  pony,  an' 
then  spurrin'  by  an'  swappin'  ends  with  the  whole 
outfit, — gent,  hoss,  an'  all. 

"  It's  really  too  toomultuous  for  a  joke,  an' 
mebby  breaks  the  pony's  neck,  mebby  the  rider's. 
But  whether  he  saves  his  neck  or  no,  the  party 
whose  pony  is  thus  tailed  allers  emerges  thar- 
from  deshevelled  an'  wrought-up,  an'  hotter  than 
a  wolf.  So  no  one  plays  this  yere  joke  much  ; 
not  till  he's  ready  to  get  shot  at. 


204  Wolfville. 

"  As  I  says,  this  Jaybird  watches  Todd  as  he 
rides  off.  Bein'  new  on  the  range  that  a-way, 
Todd  don't  ride  easy.  A  cow  saddle  ain't  built 
like  these  yere  Eastern  hulls,  nohow.  The  stir- 
rup is  set  two  inches  further  back  for  one  thing,  an' 
it's  compiled  a  heap  different  other  ways.  Bein' 
onused  to  cow  saddles,  an'  for  that  matter  cow 
ponies,  this  Todd  lops  over  for'ard  an'  beats  with 
his  elbows  like  he's  a  curlew  or  somethin'  flyin', 
an'  I  reckons  it's  sech  proceeding  makes  Jaybird 
allow  he's  goin'  to  be  funny  an'  tail  Todd's  pony. 

"  As  I  explains,  he  capers  along  after  Todd  an' 
reaches  over  an'  gets  a  handful  of  the  pony's 
tail ;  an'  then,  wroppin'  it  'round  his  saddle-horn, 
he  goes  by  on  the  jump  an'  spreads  Todd  an'  his 
bronco  permiscus  about  the  scene.  This  yere 
Todd  goes  along  the  grass  on  all  fours  like  a 
jack-rabbit. 

"  Which  Todd,  I  reckons,  is  the  hostilest  gent 
in  south-east  Arizona.  Before  ever  he  offers  to 
get  up,  he  lugs  out  his  six-shooter  an'  makes  some 
mighty  sincere  gestures  that  a-way  to  shoot  up 
Jaybird.  But  he's  slow  with  his  weepon,  bein' 
spraddled  out  on  the  grass,  an'  it  gives  Dave  Tutt 
an'  Enright  a  chance  to  jump  in  between  an' 
stop  the  deal. 

"  We-alls  picks  Todd  up,  an'  rounds  up  his 
pony, — which  scrambles  to  its  feet  an*  is  now 
cavortin'  about  like  its  mind  is  overturned, — an' 
explains  to  him  this  yere  is  a  joke.  But  he's 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke.  205 

surly  an'  relentless  about  it  ;  an*  it  don't  take  no 
hawk  to  see  he  don't  forgive  Jaybird  a  little  bit. 

"'Tailin'  a  gent's  pony,'  says  Todd,  'is  no 
doubt  thrillin'  amoosement  for  folks  lookin'  on, 
but  thar's  nothin'  of  a  redeemin'  nature  in  it 
from  the  standp'int  of  the  party  whose  pony's 
upheaved  that  a-way.  Not  to  be  misonderstood 
at  this  yere  crisis/  goes  on  this  Todd,  '  I  wants 
to  announce  that  from  now  for'ard  life  will  have 
but  one  purpose  with  me,  which'll  be  to  down 
the  next  gent  whoever  tails  a  pony  of  mine. 
The  present  incident  goes  as  a  witticism  ;  but 
you  can  gamble  the  next  won't  be  so  regarded.' 
"  That  sorter  ends  the  talk,  an'  all  of  us  but 
the  cook  an'  the  hoss-hustlers  bein'  in  the  sad- 
dle by  now,  we  disperses  ourse'fs  through  the 
scenery  to  work  the  cattle  an'  proceed  with  the 
round-up  we-alls  is  on.  We  notes,  though,  that 
tailin'  Todd's  pony  don't  go  ag'in  with  safety. 

"  It's  when  we-alls  rides  away  that  Doc  Peets 
—who's  out  with  the  round-up,  though  he  ain't 
got  no  cattle-brand  himse'f — tells  Jaybird  he's 
not  a  humorist,  like  I  already  repeats. 

"  But,  as  I  su'gests,  this  Jaybird  Bob  can't 
believe  it  none.  He's  mighty  shore  about  his 
jokes  bein'  excellent  good  jokes ;  an'  while  it's 
plain  Todd  ain't  got  no  confidence  in  him  an' 
distrusts  him  complete  since  he  tips  over  his 
bronco  that  mornin',  it  looks  like  Jaybird  can't 
let  him  alone.  An*  them  misdeeds  of  Jaybird's 


2o6  Wolfville. 

keeps  goin'  on,  ontil  by  the  merest  mistake — for 
it's  shore  an  accident  if  ever  one  happens  in  the 
cow  country — this  yere  tenderfoot  shoots  up 
Jaybird  an'  kills  him  for  good. 

"  It  looks  to  us  like  it's  a  speshul  Providence 
to  warn  folks  not  to  go  projectin'  about,  engaged 
in  what  you  might  call  physical  jests  none. 
Still,  this  yere  removal  of  Jaybird  don't  take 
place  till  mighty  near  the  close  of  the  round-up  ; 
an'  intervening  he's  pirootin'  'round,  stockin'  the 
kyards  an'  settin'  up  hands  on  the  pore  shorthorn 
continuous. 

"  One  of  Jaybird's  jokes — '  one  of  his  best,' 
Jaybird  calls  it — results  in  stampedin'  the  herd 
of  cattle  we-alls  is  bringin'  along  at  the  time — 
bein'  all  cows  an'  their  calves — to  a  brandin'-pen. 
Which  thar's  two  thousand,  big  an'  little,  in  the 
bunch;  an'  Jaybird's  humor  puts  'em  to  flight 
like  so  many  blackbirds ;  an'  it  takes  two  days 
hard  ridin'  for  the  whole  outfit  to  bring  'em  to- 
gether ag'in. 

"  Among  other  weaknesses  this  Todd  imports 
from  the  States  is,  he's  afraid  of  snakes.  Rattle- 
snakes is  his  abhorrence,  an'  if  each  is  a  disem- 
bodied sperit  he  can't  want  'em  further  off.  He's 
allers  alarmed  that  mebby,  somehow,  a  rattle- 
snake will  come  pokin'  in  onder  his  blankets 
nights,  an'  camp  with  him  while  he's  asleep. 
An'  this  yere  wretched  Jaybird  fosters  them  de- 
lusions. 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke*  207 

" '  About  them  serpents/  I  overhears  Jaybird 
say  to  him  one  evenin'  while  we-alls  is  settin' 
'round  ; — all  but  Moore  an'  Tutt,  who's  ridin' 
herd;  "bout  them  serpents;  a  gent  can't  be  too 
partic'lar.  It  looks  like  they  has  but  one  hope, 
which  it's  to  crawl  into  a  gent's  blankets  an'  sleep 
some  with  him.  Which,  if  he  moves  or  turns 
over,  they  simply  emits  a  buzz  an'  grabs  him  : 
I  knows  of  forty  folks  who's  bit  that  a-way  by 
snakes,  an*  nary  a  one  lives  to  explain  the  game.' 

"  *  Be  rattlesnakes  thick  in  Arizona  ?  '  I  hears 
Todd  say  to  this  Jaybird. 

"  '  Be  they  thick  ?  '  answers  Jaybird.  '  Well,  I 
shore  wishes  I  had  whiskey  for  all  the  rattlesnakes 
thar  is  yereabouts.  I  don't  want  to  go  overstatin' 
the  census  to  a  gent  who  is  out  playin'  for  infor- 
mation, an'  who's  learnin'  fast,  but  I  s'pose  now 
thar  ain't  none  less  than  a  billion  snakes  in  south- 
east Arizona  alone.  If  I  could  saw  off  the  little 
passel  of  cattle  I  has  on  this  range,  you  can  gam- 
ble I'd  pull  my  freight  to-morrow.  It's  all  right 
for  sech  old  Cimmarons  as  Enright,  an'  sech  par- 
ties as  that  sawbones  Peets,  to  go  bluffin'  about 
thar  bein'  no  rattlesnakes  to  speak  of,  an'  that 
they  couldn't  p'ison  you  to  death  no  how  ;  but 
you  bet  I  ain't  seen  forty  of  my  nearest  friends 
cash  in  of  snake-bites,  an*  not  learn  nothin'. 
An'  almost  every  time  it's  a  rattlesnake  as  comes 
slidin*  into  bed  with  'em  while  they's  locked  in 
dreams,  an*  who  gets  hot  an*  goes  to  chewin'  of 


208  Wolfville* 

'em,  because  they  wants  to  turn  out  before  the 
snake  does.  Rattlesnakes  that  a-way  wants  to 
sleep  till  it's  fourth-drink  time  an'  the  sun's  'way 
up  yonder.  An'  when  a  gent  goes  to  rollin'  out 
of  his  blankets  say  at  sun-up,  it  makes  'em  mon- 
strous angry  to  be  disturbed  ;  an'  the  first  he 
knows  of  where  they  be  an'  how  they  looks  on 
early  risin',  their  teeth's  in  him  up  to  the  gyard, 
an*  before  night  thar's  one  less  gent  to  cook  for, 
an'  an  extra  saddle  rides  along  in  the  grub-wagon 
with  the  blankets  when  they  next  moves  camp.' 

"  Of  course  all  this  is  a  heap  impressive  to 
Todd  ;  an'  while  Enright  an'  Peets  both  tells 
him  Jaybird's  havin'  fun  with  him,  you  can  see 
he's  mortal  afraid  every  night  when  he  spreads 
his  blankets,  an'  he  makes  a  circle  about  where 
he  sleeps  at  with  a  horse-ha'r  lariat  he's  got  from 
a  Mexican,  an'  who  tells  him  it'll  tickle  the 
snakes'  necks  when  they  goes  to  crawl  across  it, 
an-'  make  'em  keep  away. 

"The  way  this  yere  Jaybird  manages  to  stam- 
pede the  bunch  that  time  is  this  a-way.  Jaybird 
comes  ridin'  in  from  the  cattle  about  three  hours 
before  sun-up,  to  turn  out  Tutt,  who  is  due  to 
take  his  place  on  herd.  Jaybird's  got  a  rawhide 
rope  that  he's  drugged  about  in  the  grass,  which 
makes  it  damp  an'  cold.  As  Jaybird  rides  up  to 
camp  he  sees  this  Todd  rolled  in  his  blankets, 
snorin'  to  beat  four  of  a  kind. 

"  Nacherally  Jaybird's  out  to   be  joyous  in   a 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke*  209 

second.  He  rides  up  close  to  this  he'pless  short- 
horn as  he  lays  asleep,  an'  tosses  a  loop  of  his  wet 
rawhide  across  his  countenance  where  it's  turned 
up  in  the  moonlight.  As  it  settles  down  cold  an', 
startlin'  on  Todd's  skin,  Jaybird  yells: 

"  *  Snake,  Todd  !  Thar's  a  rattlesnake  on  you 
bigger'n  a  dog.' 

"  Jaybird  says  later  as  how  this  Todd  behaves 
tremendous.  He  b'iles  up  into  the  atmosphere 
with  a  howl  like  a  wolf;  an',  grabbin'  a  blanket 
in  each  hand,  he  starts  out  over  the  plains  in  a 
state  of  frenzy.  Which  the  worst  is  he  charges 
headlong  toward  the  herd  ;  an'  what  with  them 
shrieks  he  volunteers,  an'  the  blankets  flappin' 
an'  wavin',  thar  ain't  a  cow  in  the  bunch  who 
stays  in  her  right  mind  a  moment.  Which  she 
springs  to  her  feet,  an,'  takin'  her  offspring  along, 
goes  surgin'  off  into  the  hills  for  good.  You 
couldn't  head  or  stop  'em  then.  It's  the  complet- 
est  case  of  stampede  I  ever  turns  out  to  behold. 

"  No;  this  yere  Todd  never  gathers  the  rights 
of  the  eepisode.  He's  that  peevish  an'  voylent 
by  nacher  no  one  tells  him  it's  Jaybird  ;  an'  on- 
less,  in  the  light  of  knowin'  more,  he  has  since 
figgered  out  the  trooth,  he  allows  to  this  day  a 
rattlesnake  as  big  as  a  roll  of  blankets  tries  to 
recline  on  his  face  that  time. 

"  To  keep  peace  in  camp  an'  not  let  him  go 
to  pawin'  'round  for  real  trouble  with  the  fes- 
tive Jaybird,  Enright  stands  in  to  cap  the  game 


210  Wolfville. 

himse'f ;  an'  puts  it  up  in  confab  with  this  Todd 
the  next  day  as  how  he  sees  the  rattlesnake,  an' 
that  it's  mighty  near  bein'  a  whopper. 

"  '  It's  shore,'  says  Enright,  when  he  an'  Todd 
is  conversin'  tharon,  '  the  most  giant  serpent  I 
ever  sees  without  the  aid  of  licker.  An'  when  he 
goes  streakin'  off  into  the  gloom,  bein'  amazed 
an'  rattled  by  your  cries,  he  leaves,  so  far  as  I'm 
concerned,  a  trail  of  relief  behind.  You-all  can 
gamble,  I  wasn't  interruptin'  of  no  sech  snake, 
nor  makin'  of  no  pretexts  for  his  detainment.' 

"  '  What  for  was  his  rattles  like  ?  '  says  Todd  ; 
an'  he  gets  pale  at  the  mere  sound  of  Enright's 
talk. 

" '  As  to  them  rattles,'  says  Enright,  like  he's 
mighty  thoughtful  tryin'  to  recall  'em  to  mind, 
1  as  to  this  reptile's  rattles,  it's  that  dark  that 
while  I  sees  'em  I  couldn't  but  jest.  So  far  as 
I  notes  anythin'  they  looks  like  a  belt  full  of  car- 
tridges, sorter  corrugated  an'  noomerous.' 

"  Now  this  yere  which  I  relates,  while  no  doubt 
burnin'  experiences  to  Todd,  is  after  all  harmless 
enough.  An'  to  people  not  careful  about  the 
basis  of  their  glee  it  might  do  some  to  laugh  at. 
But  it  all  closes  up  on  a  play  with  nothin'  gay 
nor  merry  in  it ;  leastwise  not  for  Jaybird  Bob. 

"  This  yere  finish  joke  of  Jaybird's  transpires 
one  evenin*  as  the  cook's  startin'  in  to  rustle 
some  chuck.  The  grub-wagon's  been  stopped  in 
the  mouth  of  Peeled  Pine  Canyon.  Every  gent's 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke.  2 1 1 

in  camp  but  this  yere  tenderfoot  Todd.  Enright, 
who's  actin'  as  round-up  boss  for  the  outfit — for 
everybody's  cattle's  bein'  worked  together  that 
a-way,  like  we  allers  does — has  sent  Todd  peerin' 
'round  for  cattle,  'way  off  up  the  valley  into 
which  the  Peeled  Pine  Canyon  opens.  This  yere 
shorthorn's  due  to  be  back  any  time  now,  'cause 
it's  only  a  question  of  how  far  up  the  valley  does 
he  go.  He  don't  run  no  show  to  be  lost,  for 
nothin'  less  aerial  than  goats  could  climb  out  of 
the  canyon  he's  in,  an'  tharfore  he's  bound  to 
find  camp. 

"  Of  course,  knowin'  every  gent's  station  in 
the  day's  ridin',  we-alls  is  plenty  aware  that  this 
tenderfoot  Todd  is  some'ers  above  us  in  the 
valley.  None  of  the  rest  of  us  is  turnin'  our 
minds  to  him  probably,  except  Jaybird  Bob. 
It  all  of  a  bump  like  a  buckin'  pony  strikes  Jay- 
bird that  he's  missin'  a  onusual  chance  to  be 
buoyant. 

"  '  What  for  a  play  would  it  be,'  says  Jaybird, 
rousin'  up  from  where  he  lays  watchin'  of  the 
cook  slice  salt  hoss  for  the  fryin'-pan,  *  what  for 
a  game  would  it  be,  I  says,  for  a  passel  of  us 
to  lay  out  up  the  draw,  an'  bush-whack  this 
yere  ontaught  person  Todd  as  he  comes  ridin' 
down  to  camp?  We-alls  could  hop  out  at  him, 
a-whoopin'  an'  shootin',  an'  bein'  wropped  up  in 
blankets,  he  allows  it's  shore  Injuns  an'  goes 
plumb  locoed.' 


212  Wolfvilie. 

"  *  You-all  will  keep  harrowin'  away  at  this 
Todd  party,  Jaybird,'  says  Enright,  *  ontil  you 
arises  from  the  game  loser.  Now  I  don't  reckon 
none  I'd  play  Apache  if  I'm  you.  Thar's  too 
much  effort  in  bein'  an  Apache  that  a-way.  I'd 
lay  yere  an'  think  up  some  joke  which  don't  de- 
mand so  much  industry,  an'  ain't  calc'lated  to 
scare  an  innocent  gent  to  death.' 

"  But  Jaybird  won't  listen.  He  falls  into  admir- 
ation of  his  scheme  ;  an'  at  last  Tutt  an'  Jack 
Moore  allows  they'll  go  along  an'  play  they's 
aborigines  with  Jaybird  an'  note  how  the  tender- 
foot stands  the  racket. 

"  '  As  long  as  this  yere  Jaybird's  bound  to 
make  the  play,'  says  Jack  Moore  to  Enright, 
talkin'  one  side,  *  it's  a  heap  better  to  have  the 
conserv'tive  element  represented  in  the  deal.  So 
I  puts  it  up,  it's  a  good  sage  move  for  me  an' 
Tutt  to  stand  in.  We-alls  will  come  handy  to 
pull  Jaybird  an'  this  shorthorn  apart  if  they  gets 
their  horns  locked  in  the  course  of  them  gaities.' 

"  Enright  takes  the  same  view ;  so  Jaybird  an* 
Moore  an' Tutt  wanders  off  up  the  canyon  a  mile, 
an'  lays  in  wait  surreptitious  to  head  off  Todd. 
Jack  tells  me  the  story  when  him  an'  Tutt  comes 
ridin'  back  with  the  corpse. 

"  '  This  is  how  we  does,'  says  Jack.  '  Me  an' 
Tutt  an'  deceased — which  last  is  Jaybird  all  right 
enough — is  ensconced  behind  a  p'int  of  rocks. 
Jaybird's  got  his  blanket  wropped  'round  him  so 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke*  2 1 3 

he  looks  like  a  savage.  It  ain't  long  when  we- 
alls  hears  the  tenderfoot  comin'  down  the  canyon  ; 
it's  likely  he's  half-mile  away.  He's  runnin'  onto 
us  at  a  road-gait ;  an'  when  he's  about  two  hun- 
dred yards  off  Jaybird  turns  out  a  yell  to  make 
you  shiver,  shakes  a  load  or  two  outen  his  gun, 
goes  surgin'  out  from  'round  the  p'int  of  rocks, 
an'  charges  straight  at  this  onthinkin'  tenderfoot. 
It  is  due  to  trooth  to  say,  me  an'  Tutt  follows  this 
Jaybird's  suit,  only  not  so  voylent  as  to  whoops. 

"  '  Does  it  scare  up  the  tenderfoot  ?  Well,  it 
shorely  alarms  him  a  heap.  He  takes  Jaybird 
for  an  Injun  an'  makes  no  question;  which  the 
same  is  nowise  strange ;  I'd  took  him  for  a  sav- 
age myse'f,  only,  bein'  in  the  deal  that  a-way, 
I  knows  it's  Jaybird.  So,  as  I  remarks,  it  horri- 
fies the  tenderfoot  no  end,  an'  at  the  first  sight 
of  Jaybird  he  whirls  his  pony  an'  lights  out  up 
that  valley  like  an  antelope. 

"  '  Nacherally  we-alls  follows  ;  Jaybird  leadin', 
a-whoopin',  an'  a-shootin',  an'  throwin'  no  end  of 
sperit  into  it.  It's  a  success,  this  piece  of  wit  is, 
up  to  this  juncture,  an'  Jaybird  puts  a  heap  of 
zest  into  it. 

"  *  The  weak  spot  in  all  this  yere  humor  grows 
out  of  the  idees  this  tenderfoot's  been  gainin', 
an*  the  improvements  he's  been  makin',  while 
stragglin'  about  in  our  s'ciety.  I  onhesitatin'ly 
states  that  if  this  yere  joke  is  pulled  off  by  Jay- 
bird when  Todd  first  enters  our  midst,  it  might 


214  Wolfville. 

have  been  the  vict'ry  of  his  life.  But  Jaybird 
defers  it  too  long.  This  tenderfoot  has  acquired 
a  few  Western  ways ;  enough  to  spoil  the  fun  an' 
send  pore  Jaybird  a-curvin'  to  his  home  on  high. 

" '  This  is  what  that  shorthorn  does  which 
teaches  me  he's  learnin'.  While  he's  humpin' 
off  up  the  canyon,  an'  me  an*  Jaybird  an'  Tutt  is 
stampedin'  along  in  pursoot,  the  fugitive  throws 
loose  his  six-shooter,  an'  without  even  turnin*  his 
head  or  lookin'  back  at  us,  he  onhooks  the  entire 
bundle  of  lead  our  way. 

"  Which  the  worst  feature  of  it  is,  this  back- 
handed, blind  shootin'  is  a  winner.  The  very  first 
shot  smites  Jaybird  plumb  through  the  hat,  an' 
he  goes  off  his  pony  without  even  mentionin' 
about  it  to  either  Tutt  or  me. 

"'That's  all  thar  is  to  the  report.  Dave  an' 
me  pulls  up  our  broncos,  abandons  the  joke,  lays 
Jaybird  across  his  saddle  like  a  sack  of  corn,  an' 
returns  to  state  the  case.' 

"  '  Whatever  did  you-alls  do  with  this  fright- 
ened stranger?'  asks  En  right. 

'"  Which  we  never  does  nothin','  says  Jack. 
*  The  last  I  beholds,  he's  flyin'  up  the  valley, 
hittin'  nothin'  but  the  high  places.  An'  as- 
soomin'  his  project  is  to  get  away,  he's  succeedin' 
admirable.  As  he  vanishes,  I  should  jedge  from 
his  motions  he's  reloadin'  his  gun  ;  an'  from  the 
luck  he  has  with  Jaybird,  Tutt  an'  me  is  led  to 
believe  thar's  no  real  object  in  followin'  him  no 


Jaybird  Bob's  Joke.  2 1 5 

further.  I  don't  press  my  s'ciety  on  no  gent ; — 
shorely  not  on  some  locoed  tenderfoot  that  a-way 
who's  pulled  his  gun  an'  is  done  blazin'  away 
erratic,  without  purpose  or  aim.' 

"  '  Don't  you  an'  Tutt  know  where  he  is  at  ?  ' 
demands  Enright. 

"  *  Which  we  shorely  don't,'  says  Jack.     *  If  his 
hoss  holds,  an'  he  don't  swerve  none  from  the 
direction  he's  p'intin'  out  in  when  he  fades  from 
view,  he's  goin'  to    be   over  in  the  San   Simon 
country  by  to-morrow  mornin'  when  we  eats  our 
grub ;  an'  that's  half  way  to  the   Borax  desert 
If  you  yearns  for  my  impressions/  concloods  Jack 
'drawn  from  a-seein' of  him  depart,  I'm  free  to 
say  I  don't  reckon  you-alls  is  goin'  to  meet  this 
yere  tenderfoot  none  soon.' 

"  An'  that's  about  the  size  of  it.  Jack  calls 
the  turn.  Jaybird's  last  joke  alarms  this  tender- 
foot Todd  plumb  outen  Arizona,  an'  thar  ain't 
none  of  us  ever  sees  ha'r,  horn,  nor  hoof-mark  of 
him  no  more.  An'  he  takes  with  him,  this  Todd 
does,  the  boss  pony  in  our  bunch." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Boggs's  Experience* 

"  No ;  thar's  nothin'  prolix  about  Boggs. 
Which  on  the  contrary,  his  nacher  is  shorely 
arduous  that  a-way.  If  it's  a  meetin'  of  the 
committee,  for  instance,  with  intent  then  an'  thar 
to  dwell  a  whole  lot  on  the  doin's  of  some  male- 
factor, Boggs  allers  gets  to  a  mental  show-down 
ahead  of  the  other  gents  involved.  Either  he's 
out  to  throw  this  party  loose,  or  stretch  his  neck, 
or  run  him  outen  camp,  or  whatever's  deemed 
exact  jestice,  long  before  sech  slow-an'-shore  peo- 
pie  as  Old  Man  Enright  even  looks  at  their  hands. 
The  trooth  is,  Boggs  ain't  so  strong  on  jedge- 
ment  ;  his  long  suit  is  instinct.  An'  moreover  I 
knows  from  his  dravvin'  four  kyards  so  much  in 
poker,  Boggs  is  plumb  emotional." 

At  this  point  in  his  discourse  the -Old  Cattle- 
man paused  and  put  in  several  profound  minutes 
in  apparent  contemplation  of  Boggs.  Then  he 
went  on. 

"  That's  it ;  Boggs  is  emotional ;  an'  I  shorely 
reckons  which  he'd  even  been  a  heap  religious, 
only  thar's  no  churches  much  on  Boggs's  range. 
Boggs  teHs  me  himse'f  he  comes  mighty  near 


Boggs's  Experience*  217 

bein'  caught  in  some  speritual  round-up  one 
time,  an'  I  allers  allows,  after  hearin'  Boggs  re- 
late the  tale,  that  if  he'd  only  been  submerged  in 
what  you-alls  calls  benigner  inflooences  that 
a-way,  he'd  most  likely  made  the  fold  all  right 
an'  got  garnered  in  with  the  sheep. 

"  It's  jest  after  Short  Creek  Dave  gets  to  be 
one  of  them  Vangelists.  Dave  has  been  exhort- 
in'  of  Wolfville  to  leave  off  its  ways,  over  in  the 
warehouse  of  the  New  York  Store,  an'  that  same 
evenin'  Boggs,  bein'  some  moved,  confides  in  me 
how  once  he  mebby  half-way  makes  up  his  mind 
he'll  be  saved. 

" '  Leastwise/  says  Boggs,  when  he  takes  me 
into  his  past  that  a-way,  '  I  allows  I'll  be  religious 
in  the  spring  after  the  round-up  is  over.  But  I 
don't ;  so  you  can't,  after  all,  call  it  a  religious 
exper'ence  none  ;  nothin'  more'n  a  eepisode. 

" '  It's  winter  when  I  makes  them  grace-of- 
heaven  determinations,'  goes  on  this  Boggs,  '  an' 
the  spring  round-up  is  months  away.  But  I 
allers  puts  it  up  I'd  shorely  filled  my  hand  an' 
got  plumb  into  the  play,  only  it's  a  bad  winter; 
an'  in  the  spring  the  cattle,  weak  an'  starved,  is 
gettin'  down  an'  chillin'  to  death  about  the  water- 
holes  ;  an'  as  results  tharof  I'm  ridin'  the  hills, 
a-cussin'  an'  a-swearin';  an'  all  'round  it's  that 
rough,  an'  I'm  that  profane  an'  voylent,  I  reckons 
towards  April  probably  my  soul's  buried  onder 
ten  foot  of  cuss-words,  an'  that  j'inin'  the  church 


218  Wolfville. 

in  my  case  is  mighty  likely  to  be  a  bluff.  An'  so 
I  passes  it  up. 

"  *  You  sees,'  says  Boggs,  '  thar's  no  good  tryin' 
to  hold  out  kyards  on  your  Redeemer.  If  your 
heart  ain't  right  it's  no  use  to  set  into  the  game. 
No  cold  deck  goes.  He  sees  plumb  through 
every  kyard  you  holds,  an'  nothin'  but  a  straight 
deal  does  with  Him.  Nacherally,  then,  I  thinks 
— bein'  as  how  you  can't  bluff  your  way  into 
heaven,  an'  recallin'  the  bad  language  I  uses 
workin'  them  cattle — I  won't  even  try.  An'  that's 
why,  when  resolvin'  one  winter  to  get  religion 
mebby  next  June,  I  persists  in  my  sinful  life. 

"  *  It's  over  to  Taos  I  acquires  this  religious 
idee.  I'm  come  new  to  the  camp  from  some'ers 
down  'round  Seven  Rivers  in  the  Pecos  country, 
an'  I  don't  know  a  gent.  Which  I'm  by  nacher 
gregar'ous  ;  so  not  knowin'  folks  that  a-way  weighs 
on  me;  an'  the  first  night  I'm  thar,  I  hastens  to 
remedy  this  yere  evil.  I'm  the  possessor  of 
wealth  to  a  limit, — for  I  shore  despises  bein' 
broke  complete,  an'  generally  keeps  as  good  as  a 
blue  stack  in  my  war-bags, — an'  I  goes  project  in1 
'round  from  dance-hall  to  baile,  an'  deciminates 
my  diner o  an'  draws  to  me  nose-paint  an'  friends. 
As  thar  ain't  but  three  gin-mills,  incloosive  of  the 
hurdy-gurdy,  I'm  goin'  curvin'  in  them  grand 
rounds  which  I  institoots,  on  a  sort  of  triangle. 

" '  Which  it  can't  be  said  I  don't  make  runnin* 
of  it,  however;  I  don't  reckon  now  it's  mor'n  an 


Boggs's  Experience*  219 

hour  before  I  knows  all  Taos,  bar  Mexicans  an' 
what  some  folks  calls  "  the  better  elements."  It 
also  follows,  like  its  lariat  does  a  loose  pony, 
that  I'm  some  organized  by  whiskey,  not  to  say 
confused. 

"  '  It's  because  I'm  confused  I'm  misled  into 
this  yere  pra'r-meetin.'  Not  that  them  exercises 
is  due  to  dim  my  eternal  game  none,  now  nor 
yereafter ;  but  as  I  ain't  liable  to  adorn  the  play 
nor  take  proper  part  tharin,  I'd  shorely  passed  out 
an'  kept  on  to  the  hurdy-gurdy  if  I'd  knowed. 
As  it  stands,  I  blunders  into  them  orisons  in- 
advertent ;  but,  havin'  picked  up  the  hand,  I 
nacherally  continues  an'  plays  it. 

"  *  It's  this  a-way  about  them  religious  ex- 
ercises :  I'm  emerged  from  the  Tub  of  Blood, 
an'  am  p'intin'  out  for  the  dance-hall,  when  I 
strikes  a  wickeyup  all  lighted,  an'  singin'  on  the 
inside.  I  takes  it  for  a  joint  I  ain't  seen  none 
as  yet,  an'  tharupon  heads  up  an'  enters.  From 
the  noise,  I  allows  mebby  it's  Mexican  ;  which 
Greasers  usual  puts  up  a  heap  of  singin'  an'  scuf- 
flin'  an'  talkin'  in  everythin'  from  monte  to  a 
bull-fight. 

" '  Once  I'm  in,  I  notes  it  ain't  Mexicans  an*  it 
ain't  monte.  Good  folks  though,  I  sees  that ; 
an'  as  a  passel  of  'em  near  the  door  looks  shocked 
at  the  sight  of  me,  I'm  too  bashful  to  break  out 
ag'in,  but  sorter  aiges  into  the  nearest  seat  an* 
stands  pat. 


220  Wolfville. 

" '  I  can  tell  the  outfit  figgers  on  me  raisin'  the 
long  yell  an'  stampedin'  'round  to  make  trouble ; 
so  I  thinks  to  myse'f  I'll  fool  'em  up  a  lot.  I 
jest  won't  say  a  word.  So  I  sets  silent  as  a 
coyote  at  noon  ;  an'  after  awhile  the  sharp  who's 
dealin'  for  'em  goes  on  with  them  petitions  I  in- 
terrupts as  I  comes  bulgin'  in. 

"  *  Their  range-boss  says  one  thing  I  remem- 
bers. It's  about  castin'  your  bread  upon  the 
waters.  He  allows  you'll  get  it  ag'in  an'  a  band 
of  mavericks  with  it.  It's  playin'  white  chips  to 
win  blues  ;  that's  what  this  sharp  says. 

"  *  It  shorely  strikes  me  as  easy.  Every  time 
you  does  good,  says  this  party,  Fate  is  out  to  play 
a  return  game  with  you  ;  an'  it's  written  you  quits 
winner  on  all  the  good  you  promulgates  that  a-way. 

" '  I  sets  the  deal  out  an'  gets  some  sleepy  at 
it,  too.  But  I  won't  leave  an'  scand'lize  the  con- 
gregation ;  an*  as  I  gives  up  strong  when  the 
plate  goes  by,  I  ain't  regarded  as  no  setback. 

"  '  When  the  contreebution-box — which  she's  a 
tin  plate — comes  chargin'  by,  I'm  sorter  noddin,' 
I'm  that  weary.  I  notes  the  jingle  of  money,  an' 
rouses  up,  allowin'  mebby  it's  a  jack-pot,  I 
reckons. 

"  *  "  How  hard  be  you-all  in  ?  "  I  says  to  the 
gent  next  to  me,  who's  gone  to  the  center  for  a 
peso. 

"  ' "  Dollar,"  says  the  gent. 

"  *  "  Well,"  I  says,  "  I  ain't  seen  my  hand  since 


Boggs's  Experience*  221 

the  draw,  but  I'll  raise  you  nine  blind."  An'  I 
boards  a  ten-dollar  bill. 

"  *  When  the  rest  goes,  I  sorter  sidles  forth  an' 
lines  out  for  the  dance-hall.  The  fact  is  I'm 
needin'  what  you-alls  calls  stimulants.  But  all 
the  same  it  sticks  in  my  head  about  castin'  good 
deeds  on  the  water  that  a-way.  It  sticks  thar 
yet,  for  that  matter. 

"  Bein'  released  from  them  devotions,  I  starts 
to  drinkin'  ag'in  with  zeal  an'  earnestness.  An' 
thar  comes  a  time  when  all  my  money's  in  my 
boots.  Yere's  how :  I  only  takes  two  stacks  of 
reds  when  I  embarks  on  this  yere  debauch. 
Bein'  deep  an'  crafty,  an'  a  new  Injun  at  that 
agency  that  a-way,  an'  not  knowin'  what  game  I 
may  go  ag'inst,  I  puts  the  rest  of  my  bank-roll 
over  in  Howard's  store.  It  turns  out,  too,  that 
every  time  I  acquires  silver  in  change,  I  commits 
it  to  my  left  boot,  which  is  high  an'  ample  to 
hold  said  specie.  Why  I  puts  this  yere  silver 
money  in  my  boot-laig  is  shore  too  many  for  me. 
But  I  feels  mighty  cunnin'  over  it  at  the  time, 
an'  regards  it  as  a  'way-up  play. 

"  'As  I  tells  you,  thar  arrives  an  hour  while 
I'm  in  the  Tub  of  Blood  when  my  money's  all  in 
my  boot,  an'  thar's  still  licker  to  drink.  Fact  is, 
I  jest  meets  a  gent  named  Frosty,  as  good  a 
citizen  as  ever  riffles  a  deck  or  pulls  a  trigger,  an' 
p'liteness  demands  we-alls  puts  the  nose-paint  in 
play.  That's  why  I  has  to  have  money. 


222  Wolfville. 

"  '  I  don't  care  to  go  pullin'  off  my  moccasins 
in  the  Tub  of  Blood,  an'  makin'  a  vulgar  display 
of  my  wealth  by  pourin'  the  silver  onto  the 
floor.  Thar's  a  peck  of  it,  if  thar's  dos  reals  ;  an' 
sech  an  exhibition  as  spillin'  it  out  in  the  Tub  of 
Blood  is  bound  to  mortify  me,  an'  the  barkeep, 
an'  Frosty,  an'  most  likely  lead  to  makin'  remarks. 
So  I  concloods  I'll  round  up  my  silver  outside 
an'  then  return. 

"'"  Excuse  me,"  I  says  to  Frosty.  "You 
stay  right  yere  with  the  bottle,  an'  I'll  be  among 
you  ag'in  in  a  minute  all  spraddled  out." 

"  '  I  goes  wanderin'  out  back  of  the  Tub  of 
Blood,  where  it's  lonesome,  an*  camps  down  by  a 
Spanish-bayonet,  an'  tugs  away  to  get  my  boot 
off  an'  my  dinero  into  circ'lation. 

" '  An'  while  I'm  at  it,  sleep  an'  nose-paint 
seizes  me,  an'  my  light  goes  plumb  out.  I  rolls 
over  behind  the  bayonet-bush  an'  raises  a  snore. 
As  for  that  Frosty,  he  waits  a  while;  then  he 
pulls  his  freight,  allowin'  I'm  too  deliberate  about 
comin'  back,  for  him. 

"  *  It  must  have  made  them  coyotes  stop  an' 
consider  a  whole  lot  about  what  I  be.  To  show 
you  how  good  them  coyotes  is,  I  wants  to  tell 
you  :  I  don't  notice  it  ontil  the  next  day.  While 
I'm  curled  up  to  the  r'ar  of  that  bush  they  comes 
mighty  near  gnawin'  the  scabbard  offen  my  gun. 
Fact  ;  the  leather  looks  like  some  pup  has  been 
chewin'  it.  But  right  then  I  ain't  mindin'  nothin' 


Boggs's  Experience*  223 

so  oninterestin'  as  a  coyote  bitin'  on  the  leather  of 
my  gun. 

"  *  Now  this  is  where  that  bluff  about  bread  on 
the  waters  comes  in  ;  an'  it  falls  so  pat  on  the 
heels  of  them  devotions  of  mine,  it  he'ps  brand 
it  on  my  mem'ry.  While  I'm  layin'  thar,  an' 
mighty  likely  while  them  coyotes  is  lunchin'  offen 
my  scabbard  that  a-way,  along  comes  a  rank 
stranger  they  calls  Spanish  Bill. 

"  *  I  learns  afterward  how  this  Spanish  Bill  is 
hard,  plumb  through.  He's  rustled  everythin' 
from  a  bunch  of  ponies  to  the  mail-bags,  an'  is 
nothin'  but  a  hold-up  who  needs  hangin'  every 
hour.  Whatever  takes  him  to  where  I  lays  by 
my  bayonet-bush  I  never  knows.  He  don't  dis- 
close nothin'  on  that  p'int  afterward,  an'  mebby 
he  tracks  up  on  me  accidental. 

"  *  But  what  informs  me  plain  that  he  explores 
my  war-bags  for  stuff,  before  ever  he  concloods  to 
look  after  my  health,  is  this  :  Later,  when  we 
gets  acquainted  an'  I  onfurls  my  finances  onto 
him,  he  seems  disapp'inted  an'  hurt. 

"  '  The  statistics  of  the  barkeep  of  the  Tub  of 
Blood  next  day,  goes  to  the  effect  that  I'm 
shorely  out  thar  four  hours ;  an'  when  Spanish 
Bill  discovers  me  I'm  mighty  near  froze.  Taos 
nights  in  November  has  a  heap  of  things  in  com- 
mon with  them  Artie  regions  we  hears  of,  where 
them  fur-lined  sports  goes  in  pursoot  of  that 
North  Pole.  Bein'  froze,  an'  mebby  from  an 


224  Wolfville. 

over-dab  of  nose-paint,  I  never  saveys  about  this 
yere  Spanish  Bill  meetin'  up  with  me  that  a-way 
ontil  later.  But  by  what  the  barkeep  says,  he 
drug  me  into  the  Tub  of  Blood  an'  allows  he's  got 
a  maverick. 

"  '  "  Fix  this  yere  froze  gent  up  somethin'  with 
teeth,"  says  Spanish  Bill  to  the  barkeep.  "  I 
don't  know  his  name  none,  but  he's  sufferin'  an' 
has  got  to  be  recovered  if  it  takes  the  entire 
check-rack." 

"  *  Which  the  barkeep  stands  in  an*  brings  me 
to.  I  comes  'round  an'  can  walk  some  if  Spanish 
Bill  goes  along  steadyin'  of  me  by  the  collar. 
Tharupon  said  Bill  rides  herd  on  me  down  to  the 
Jackson  House  an'  spreads  me  on  some  blankets. 

"  *  It's  daylight  when  I  begins  to  be  aware  my 
name's  Boggs,  an'  that  I'm  a  native  of  Kentucky, 
an'  little  personalities  like  that  ;  an'  what  wakes 
me  up  is  this  Spanish  Bill. 

"  '  "  See  yere,"  says  this  hold-up,  "  I'm  goin'  to 
turn  in  now,  an'  it's  time  you-all  is  up.  Yere's 
what  you  do :  Thar's  five  whiskey-checks  on  the 
Tub  of  Blood,  which  willhe'p  you  to  an  appetite. 
Followin'  of  a  s'fficient  quantity  of  fire-water, 
you  will  return  to  the  Jackson  House  an'  eat.  I 
pays  for  it.  I  won't  be  outen  my  blankets  by 
then  ;  but  they  knows  that  Spanish  Bill  makes 
good,  'cause  I  impresses  it  on  'em  speshul  when 
I  comes  in. 

"'"You-all    don't    know  me,"   goes   on    this 


Boggs's  Experience*  225 

Spanish  Bill,  as  I  sets  up  an'  blinks  at  him  some 
foggy  an'  blurred,  "  an'  I  don't  know  you  " 
which  we-alls  allows,  outen  p'liteness,  is  a  dead 
loss  to  both.  "  But  my  name's  Spanish  Bill,  an' 
I'm  turnin'  monte  in  the  Bank  Exchange.  I'll 
be  thar  at  my  table  by  first-drink  time  this 
evenin' ;  an'  if  you  sa'nters  that  a-way  at  that 
epock,  we'll  have  a  drink  ;  an'  bein'  as  you're 
busted,  of  course  I  stakes  you  moderate  on  your 
way." 

"  '  It's  this  bluff  about  me  not  havin'  money 
puts  me  in  mind  later  that  this  Bill  must  have 
rustled  my  raiments  when  he  finds  me  that  time 
when  I'm  presided  over  by  coyotes  while  I 
sleeps.  When  he  says  it,  however,  I  merely  re- 
marks that  while  I'm  grateful  to  him  as  mockin'- 
birds,  money  after  all  ain't  no  object  with  me  ; 
an',  pullin'  off  my  nigh  moccasin,  I  pours  some 
two  pounds  of  specie  onto  the  blankets. 

« « « Which  I  packs  this  in  my  boot,"  I  ob- 
serves, "  to  put  myse'f  in  mind  I've  got  a  roll 
big  enough  to  fill  a  nose-bag  over  to  Howard's 
store." 

"  '  "  An'  I'm  feelin'  the  galiest  to  hear  it,"  says 
this  Spanish  Bill ;  though  as  I  su'gests  he  acts 
pained  an'  amazed,  like  a  gent  who's  over-looked 
a  bet. 

"  *  Well,  that's  all  thar  is  to  that  part.  That's 
where  Spanish  Bill  launches  that  bread  of  his'n ; 
an'  the  way  it  later  turns  out  it  sorter  b'ars  down 


226  Wolfville* 

on  me,  an'  keeps  me  rememberin'  what  that  sky- 
scout  says  at  the  pra'r-meetin'  about  the  action 
a  gent  gets  by  playin'  a  good  deed  to  win. 

"  *  It's  the  middle  of  January,  mebby  two 
months  later,  when  I'm  over  on  the  Upper 
Caliente  about  fifty  miles  back  of  the  Spanish 
Peaks.  I'm  workin'  a  bunch  of  cattle  ;  Cross-K 
is  the  brand  ;  y'ear-marks  a  swallow-fork  in  the 
left,  with  the  right  y'ear  onderhacked.' 

"  What's  the  good  of  a  y'ear-mark  when  thar's 
a  brand  ?  "  repeated  the  Old  Cattleman  after  me, 
for  I  had  interrupted  with  the  question.  "  What- 
ever's  the  good  of  y'ear-marks?  Why,  when 
mixed  cattle  is  in  a  bunch,  standin'  so  close  you 
can't  see  no  brands  on  their  sides,  an'  you-all  is 
ridin'  through  the  outfit  cuttin'  out,  y'ear-marks 
is  what  you  goes  by.  Cattle  turns  to  look  as 
you  comes  ridin'  an'  pesterin'  among  'em,  a"n' 
their  two  y'ears  p'ints  for'ard  like  fans.  You 
gets  their  y'ear-marks  like  printin'  on  the  page 
of  a  book.  If  you  was  to  go  over  a  herd  by  the 
brands,  you  wouldn't  cut  out  a  steer  an  hour. 
But  to  trail  back  after  Boggs. 

"  '  It's  two  months  later,  an'  I'm  ridin'  down  a 
draw  one  day,'  says  this  Dan  Boggs,  '  cussin'  the 
range  an'  the  weather,  when  my  pony  goes  to 
havin'  symptoms.  This  yere  pony  is  that  saga- 
cious that  while  it  makes  not  the  slightest  men- 
tion of  cattle  when  they's  near,  it  never  comes 
up  on  deer,  or  people  in  the  hills,  but  it  takes  to 


Boggs's  Experience* 


227 


givin'  of  manifestations.     This  is  so  I  can  squar' 
myse'f  for  whatever  game  they  opens  on  us. 

" '  As  I  says,  me  an'  this  yere  wise  pony  is 
pushin'  out  into  the  Caliente  when  the  pony  be- 
gins to  make  signs.  I  brings  him  down  all  cau- 
tious where  we  can  look  across  the  valley,  an' 


"  NACHERALLY  I  STOPS  AN'  SURVEYS  HIM  CAREFUL." 

you-all  can  gamble  I'm  some  astonished  to  see  a 
gent  walkin'  along  afoot,  off  mebby  a  couple 
hundred  yards.  He  sorter  limps  an'  leans  over 
on  one  side  like  he's  hurt.  Nacherally  I  stops 
an'  surveys  him  careful.  It's  plenty  strange  he's 


228  Wolfville. 

thar  at  all ;  an'  stranger  still  he's  afoot.  I  looks 
him  over  for  weepons  ;  I  wants  to  note  what 
he's  like  an'  how  he's  heeled. 

"  'You  saveys  as  well  as  me  it  don't  do  to  go 
canterin'  out  to  strangers  that  a-way  in  the  hills  ; 
speshully  a  stranger  who's  afoot.  He  might 
hunger  for  your  pony  for  one  thing,  an'  open  a 
play  on  you  with  his  gun,  as  would  leave  you 
afoot  an'  likewise  too  dead  to  know  it. 

" '  I'm  allers  cautious  that  a-way,  around  a 
party  who's  lost  his  hoss.  It  locoes  him  an' 
makes  him  f'rocious  ;  I  s'pose  bein'  afoot  he  feels 
he'pless,  an'  let  out  an'  crazy.  A  gent  afoot  is  a 
heap  easier  to  aggravate,  too  ;  an'  a  mighty  sight 
more  likely  to  lay  for  you  than  when  he's  in  a 
Texas  saddle  with  a  pony  between  his  knees. 

"  '  Which  is  why  I  remarks,  that  I  stacks  up 
this  pedestrian  careful  an'  accurate  before  I  goes 
after  him. 

"'As  I  says,  he  carries  on  like  he's  hurt;  an' 
he's  packin'  a  six-shooter.  He  seems  familiar, 
too;  an'  while  I  looks  him  over  I'm  wonderin' 
where  I  cuts  his  trail  before. 

"  '  As  I  has  the  advantage  of  a  Winchester,  I 
at  last  rides  into  the  open  an*  gives  a  whoopee. 
The  party  turns,  comes  limpin'  toward  me,  an' 
whoever  do  you  allow  it  is?  Which  it's  shorely 
Spanish  Bill ;  an'  it's  right  yere  he  gets  action  on 
that  bread  on  the  waters  he  plays  in  when  he  re- 
covers me  that  time  in  Taos. 


Boggs's  Experience*  229 

"  '  To  make  it  brief,  Spanish  Bill  tells  me  that 
after  I  leaves  Taos  he  goes  over  an'  deals  monte 
a  bit  at  Wagon  Mound.  One  night  a  Mexican 
comes  caperin'  in,  an'  Bill  gives  him  a  layout  or 
two.  At  last  he  makes  an  alcy  bet  of  fifty  dol- 
lars on  the  queen  ;  what  the  Greasers  calls  the 
"hoss."  The  Mexican  loses;  an'  instead  of 
takin'  it  easy  like  a  sport  should,  he  grabs  the 
money. 

"  '  As  was  his  dooty,  Spanish  Bill  bends  his  six- 
shooter  over  the  Mexican.  Tharupon  he  searches 
out  a  knife ;  an'  this  yere  so  complicates  the 
business,  Bill,  to  simplify  things,  plugs  the  Mexi- 
can full  of  holes. 

"  *  This  shootin'  is  on  the  squar',  an'  no  one 
takes  hostile  notice  of  it.  Spanish  Bill  goes  on 
layin'  out  his  monte  same  as  usual.  Two  days 
later,  though,  he  gets  a  p'inter  the  Mexicans  is 
fixin'  for  him.  So  that  night  he  moves  camp— 
mebby  to  where  it's  a  hundred  an'  sixty  miles 
from  Wagon  Mound,  over  on  the  Vermejo. 

"  *  But  it  looks  like  the  Greasers  hangs  to  the 
trail  ;  for  the  day  before  I  tracks  up  on  him  a 
band  of  'em  hops  outen  a  dry  arroya,  where 
they's  bush-wackin'  for  him,  an'  goes  to  shootin'. 
As  might  be  expected,  Spanish  Bill  turns  loose, 
free  an'  frequent,  an'  they  all  shorely  has  a  high, 
excessive  time. 

"'The  Mexicans  downs  Spanish  Bill's  pony, 
an'  a  bullet  creases  Bill's  side  ;  which  last  is  what 


230  Wolfville* 

curves  him  over  an'  indooces  him  to  limp  when  1 
trails  up  with  him. 

u'As  Spanish  Bill  goes  down,  the  Mexicans 
scatter.  The  game  is  too  high  for  'em.  They 
was  shy  two  people,  with  another  plugged  deep 
an'  strong ;  by  which  you  notes  that  Bill  is 
aimin'  low  an'  good. 

"  *  After  the  shootin'  Spanish  Bill  crawls  over 
to  a  ranch,  an',  gettin'  a  pony  an'  saddle,  which 
he  easy  does,  he  breaks  back  into  the  hills  where 
I  encounters  him.  It's  that  morning  his  pony 
gets  tired  of  the  deal,  an'  bucks  him  off,  an'  goes 
stampedin'  back.  That's  why  he's  afoot. 

"  *  While  he's  talkin'  all  this,  I  recalls  how 
Spanish  Bill  rounds  me  up  that  night  in  Taos,  so 
I  don't  hesitate.  I  takes  him  over  to  my  camp. 
The  next  mornin'  he  turns  his  nose  for  Texas 
on  my  best  pony  ;  which  is  the  last  I  sees  or 
hears  of  Spanish  Bill,  onless  he's  the  Bill  who's 
lynched  over  near  Eagle  Pass  a  year  later,  of 
which  I  surmises  it's  some  likely. 

" '  But  whether  Bill's  lynched  or  not,  it  all 
brings  up  ag'in  what  that  Gospel-gent  says  about 
doin'  benev'lences ;  an'  how  after  many  days  you 
dies  an'  makes  a  winnin',  an'  lives  on  velvet  all 
eternity.  An'  don't  you  know  this  Spanish  Bill 
pickin'  me  up  that  night,  an'  then  in  less  than 
two  months,  when  he's  afoot  an'  hurt  in  the 
hills,  gettin'  ag'inst  me  an'  drawin'  out  of  the 
game  ahead  a  saddle,  a  pony  an'  safety,  makes 


Boggs's  Experience.  23 1 

it    seem    like  that    Bible-sharp    is  right  a  whole 
lot? 

"'That's  how  it  strikes  me,'  concloods  Boggs. 
'  An'  as  I  tells  you  ;  if  so  many  cattle  don't  die 
that  spring ;  an'  if  I  don't  give  way  so  frightful 
in  my  talk,  I'd  shorely  hunted  down  a  congrega- 
tion the  next  June,  an'  stood  in.'  ' 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 
Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners* 

"  WHATEVER'S  the  difference  between  the  East 
an'  the  West  ?  "  said  the  Old  Cattleman,  repeat- 
ing my  question  rather  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
sideration than  from  any  failure  to  understand : 
"  What's  the  difference  between  the  East  an'  the 
West  ?  Which,  so  far  as  I  notes,  to  relapse  into 
metaphor,  as  you-alls  says,  the  big  difference  is 
that  the  East  allers  shoots  from  a  rest ;  while 
the  West  shoots  off  hand. 

"  The  West  shore  learns  easy  an'  is  quick  to 
change  a  system  or  alter  a  play.  It's  plumb 
swift,  the  West  is ;  an'  what  some  regards  as 
rough  is  mere  rapidity.  The  West  might  go 
broke  at  faro-bank  in  the  mornin',  an'  be  rich 
at  roulette  in  the  afternoon  ;  you  can't  tell.  I 
knows  partners  in  Arizona  who  rolls  out  in  the 
gray  light  of  breakin'  day  an'  begins  work  by 
dissolvin'  an'  windin'  up  the  firm's  affairs.  By 
dark  them  same  gents  is  pards  ag'in  in  a  new  en- 
terprise complete.  Folks'll  fight  at  sun-up  an' 
cook  their  chile  con  came  together  at  night,  an' 
then  sleep  onder  the  same  blankets.  For  which 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  233 

causes  thar's  no  prophets  in  the  West  ;  a  Western 
future  that  a-way  bein'  so  mighty  oncertain  no 
prophet  can  fasten  his  lariat. 

"  Speakin'  of  pards  an'  the  fog  which  surrounds 
what  the  same  is  likely  to  do,  makes  me  think 
of  the  onlicensed  an'  onlooked-for  carryin's-on  of 
'Doby  Dawson  an'  Copper  Queen  Billy  Rudd. 
Them  two  gents  fosters  a  feud  among  themse'fs 
that  splits  'em  wide  open  an*  keeps  'em  pesterin' 
each  other  for  years  ;  which  the  doin's  of  them 
locoed  people  is  the  scandal  of  Wolfville  while  it 
lasts. 

"  It's  mebby  the  spring  after  we  erects  the 
Bird  Cage  Op'ry  House,  an'  Wolfville  is  gettin' 
to  be  considerable  of  a  camp.  We-alls  is  organ- 
ized for  a  shore-'nough  town,  an  Jack  Moore  is 
a  shore-'nough  marshal,  with  Enright  for  al- 
calde that  a-way,  an'  thar's  a  heap  of  improve- 
ments. 

"  When  I  first  tracks  into  Wolfville,  cows  is 
what  you  might  call  the  leadin'  industry,  with 
whiskey  an'  faro-bank  on  the  side.  But  in  the 
days  of  'Doby  Dawson  an'  Copper  Queen  Billy 
Rudd,  ore  has  been  onearthed,  the  mines  is 
opened,  an'  Wolfville's  swelled  tremendous. 
We-alls  even  wins  a  county-seat  fight  with  Red 
Dog,  wherein  we  puts  it  all  over  that  ornery 
hamlet ;  an'  we  shorely  deals  the  game  for  the 
entire  region. 

"  As  I  states,  it's  the  spring  after  we  promotes 


234  Wolfville* 

the  Bird  Cage  Op'ry  House — which  temple  of 
amoosements  is  complete  the  fall  before — that 
'Doby  an'  Billy  turns  up  in  Wolfville.  I  knows 
she's  spring,  for  I'm  away  workin'  the  round-up 
at  the  time,  an'  them  gents  is  both  thar  drunk 
when  I  comes  in. 

"  'Doby  an'  Billy's  been  pards  for  ten  years. 
They's  miner  folks,  an'  'Doby  tells  me  himse'f 
one  day  that  him  an'  Billy  has  stood  in  on  every 
mine  excitement  from  Alaska  to  Lower  Californy. 
An'  never  once  does  they  get  their  trails  crossed 
or  have  a  row. 

"  Them  two  gents  strikes  in  at  Wolfville  when 
the  mines  is  first  opened,  an'  stakes  out  three 
claims;  one  for  'Doby,  one  for  Billy,  an'  one  for 
both  of  'em.  They's  camped  off  up  a  draw 
about  half  a  mile  from  town,  where  their  claims 
is,  an'  has  a  little  cabin  an'  seems  to  be  gettin' 
along  peaceful  as  a  church  ;  an'  I  reckons  thar's 
no  doubt  but  they  be. 

"  When  'Doby  an'  Billy  first  comes  caperin' 
into  Wolfville  they's  that  thick  an'  friendly  with 
each  other,  it's  a  shame  to  thieves.  I  recalls 
how  their  relations  that  a-way  excites  general 
admiration,  an'  Doc  Peets  even  goes  so  far  he 
calls  'em  '  Jonathan  an'  David.'  Which  Peets 
would  have  kept  on  callin'  'em  '  Jonathan  an' 
David '  plumb  through,  but  Billy  gets  hostile. 

"  *  It  ain't  me  I  cares  for/ says  Billy, — which 
he  waits  on  Doc  Peets  with  his  gun, — '  but  no 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  235 

gent's  goin'  to  malign  'Doby  Dawson  none  an' 
alloode  to  him  as  '  Jonathan  '  without  rebooke.' 

"  Seein'  it  pains  Billy,  an'  as  thar  ain't  even  a 
white  chip  in  mere  nomenclature  that  a-way,  of 
course  Doc  Peets  don't  call  'em  '  Jonathan  an' 
David  '  no  more. 

"  'Doby  an'  Billy's  been  around  mighty  likely 
six  months.  The  camp  gets  used  to  'em  an' 
likes  'em.  They  digs  an'  blasts  away  in  them 
badger-holes  they  calls  shafts  all  day,  an'  then 
comes  chargin'  down  to  the  Red  Light  at  night. 
After  the  two  is  drunk  successful,  they  mutually 
takes  each  other  home.  An'  as  they  lines  out 
for  their  camp  upholdin'  an'  he'pin'  of  each 
other,  an'  both  that  dead  soaked  in  nose-paint 
they  long  before  abandons  tryin'  to  he'p  them- 
se'fs,  I  tells  you,  son,  their  love  is  a  picture  an'  a 
lesson. 

"  '  Which  the  way  them  pore,  locoed  sots,' 
says  Old  Man  Enright  one  night,  as  'Doby  an' 
Billy  falls  outen  the  Red  Light  together,  an' 
then  turns  in  an'  assists  each  other  to  rise, — 
'  which  the  way  them  pore  darkened  drunkards 
rides  herd  on  each  other,  an'  is  onse'fish  an' 
generous  that  a-way,  an'  backs  each  other's  play, 
is  as  good  as  sermons.  You-all  young  men,' 
says  Enright,  turnin'  on  Jack  Moore  an'  Boggs 
an'  Tutt,  '  you-all  imatoor  bucks  whose  character 
ain't  really  formed  none  yet,  oughter  profit 
plenty  by  their  example.' 


236  Wolfville. 

"  As  I  remarks,  'Doby  an'  Billy's  been  inhab- 
itin'  Wolfville  for  mighty  hard  on  six  months 
when  the  trouble  between  'em  first  shows  its 
teeth.  As  Billy  walks  out  one  mornin'  to  sniff 
the  climate  some,  he  .remarks  a  Mexican— 
which  his  name  is  Jose  Salazar,  but  don't  cut  no 
figger  nohow — sorter  'propriatin'  of  a  mule. 

"  '  The  same,'  as  Billy  says,  in  relatin'  the 
casooalty  later,  *  bein'  our  star  mule.' 

"  Nacherally,  on  notin'  the  misdeeds  of  this 
yere  Greaser,  Billy  reaches  inside  the  cabin,  an' 
sorts  out  a  Winchester  an'  plugs  said  culprit  in 
among  his  thoughts ;  an'  tharby  brings  his  mule- 
rustlin'  an'  his  reflections  to  a  pause  some. 

"  It's  two  hours  later,  mebby,  when  the  de- 
funct's daughter — the  outfit  abides  over  in  Chi- 
huahua, which  is  the  Mexican  part  of  Wolfville 
— goes  to  a  show-down  with  'Doby  an'  Billy  an' 
wants  to  know  does  she  get  the  corpse  ? 

"  *  Shore,'  says  'Doby,  '  which  we-alls  has  no 
further  use  for  your  paw,  an'  his  remainder  is 
free  an'  welcome  to  you.  You  can  bet  me  an' 
Billy  ain't  holdin'  out  no  paternal  corpses  none 
on  their  weepin'  offsprings.' 

"  Followin'  of  his  bluff,  'Doby  goes  over  an' 
consoles  with  the  Mexican's  daughter,  which 
her  name's  Manuela,  an'  she  don't  look  so  bad 
neither.  Doc  Peets,  whose  jedgement  of  females 
is  a  cinch,  allows  she's  as  pretty  as  a  diamond 
flush,  an'  you  can  gamble  Doc  Peets  ain't 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners.  237 

makin'  no  blind  leads  when  it's  a  question  of 
squaws. 

"  So  'Doby  consoles  this  yere  Manuela  a  whole 
lot,  while  Billy,  who's  makin'  coffee  an'  bakin'- 
powder  biscuit  inside,  don't  really  notice  he's 
doin'  it.  Fact  is,  Billy's  plumb  busy.  The  New 
York  Store  havin'  changed  bakin'-powder  onto 
us  the  week  before — the  same  redoocin'  biscuits 
to  a  conundrum  for  a  month  after — an'  that 
bakin'-powder  change  sorter  engagin'  Billy's  fac- 
ulties wholly,  he  forgets  about  deceased  an'  his 
daughter  complete  ;  that  is,  complete  temporary. 
Later,  when  the  biscuits  is  done  an'  offen  his 
mind,  Billy  recalls  all  about  it  ag'in. 

"  But  'Doby,  who's  a  good  talker  an'  a  mighty 
tender  gent  that  a-way,  jumps  in  an'  comforts 
Manuela,  an'  shows  her  how  this  mule  her  paw  is 
stealin'  is  by  way  an*  far  the  best  mule  in  camp, 
an'  at  last  she  dries  her  tears  an'  allows  in  her 
language  that  she's  growin'  resigned.  'Doby 
winds  up  by  he'pin'  Manuela  home  with  what's 
left  of  her  paw. 

"  *  Which  it's  jest  like  that  'Doby,'  says  Billy, 
when  he  hears  of  his  partner  packin'  home  his 
prey  that  a-way,  an'  his  tones  shows  he  admires 
'Doby  no  limit,  '  which  it's  shorely  like  him. 
Take  folks  in  distress,  an'  you-alls  can  bet  your 
last  chip  'Doby  can't  do  too  much  for  'em.' 

"  Billy's  disgust  sets  in  like  the  rainy  season, 
however,  when  about  two  months  later  'Doby 


23S  Wolfville. 

ups  an'  weds  this  Mexican  girl  Manuela.  When 
Billy  learns  of  said  ceremony,  he  declines  a  seat 
in  the  game,  an'  won't  go  near  them  nuptials 
nohow. 

" '  An'  I  declar's  myse'f  right  yere,'  says  Billy. 
'  From  now  for'ard  it's  a  case  of  lone  hand  with 
me.  I  don't  want  no  more  partners.  When  a 
gent  with  whom  for  ten  years  I've  camped, 
trailed,  an'  prospected  with,  all  the  way  from  the 
Dalls  to  the  Gila,  quits  me  cold  an'  clammy  for 
a  squaw  he  don't  know  ten  weeks,  you  can  gam- 
ble that  lets  me  plumb  out.  I've  done  got  my 
med'cine,  an'  I'm  ready  to  quit.' 

"  But  'Doby  an'  Billy  don't  actooally  make  no 
assignment,  nor  go  into  what  you-all  Eastern 
sharps  calls  liquidation.  The  two  goes  on  an' 
works  their  claims  together,  an'  the  firm  name 
still  waves  as  '  'Doby  Dawson  an'  Copper  Queen 
Billy  Rudd,'  only  Billy  won't  go  into  'Doby's 
new  wickeyup  where  he's  got  Manuela, — not  a 
foot. 

"  '  Which  I  might  have  conquered  my  native 
reluctance,'  says  Billy,  *  so  to  do,  an'  I  even 
makes  up  my  mind  one  night — it's  after  I've  got 
my  grub,  an'  you-alls  knows  how  plumb  soft  an' 
forgivin'  that  a-way  a  gent  is  when  his  stomach's 
full  of  grub — to  go  up  an'  visit  'em  a  lot.  But 
as  I  gets  to  the  door  I  hears  a  noise  I  don't 
savey  ;  an'  when  I  Injuns  up  to  a  crack  an'  sur- 
veys the  scene,  I'm  a  coyote  if  thar  ain't  'Doby, 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  239 

with  his  wife  in  his  lap,  singin'  to  her.  That's 
squar' ;  actooally  singin'  ;  which  sech  efforts  re- 
minds me  of  ballards  by  cinnamon  b'ars. 

"  *  I  ain't  none  shore,'  goes  on  Billy,  as  he  re- 
lates about  it  to  me,  *  but  I'd  stood  sech  egree- 
gious  plays,  chargin'  it  general  to  'Doby's  gettin' 
locoed  an'  mushy ;  but  when  this  yere  ingrate 
ends  his  war-song,  what  do  you-all  reckon  now 
he  does  ?  Turns  in  an'  begins  'pologizin'  for  me 
downin'  her  dad.  Which  the  old  hold-up  is  on 
the  mule  an'  goin'  hell-bent  when  I  curls  him  up. 
Well,  that  ends  things  with  me.  I  turns  on  my 
heels  an'  goes  down  to  the  Red  Light  an'  gets 
drunk  plumb  through.  You  recalls  it ;  the  time 
I'm  drunk  a  month,  an'  Cherokee  Hall  bars  me 
at  faro-bank,  allowin'  I'm  onconscious  of  my  sur- 
roundin's.' 

"  Billy  goes  on  livin'  at  their  old  camp,  an' 
'Doby  an'  Manuela  at  the  new  one  'Doby  built. 
This  last  is  mebby  four  hundred  yards  more  up 
the  draw.  Burin'  the  day  'Doby  an'  Billy  turns 
in  an'  works  an'  digs  an'  drills  an'  blasts  together 
as  of  yore.  The  main  change  is  that  at  evenin' 
Billy  gets  drunk  alone  ;  an'  as  'Doby  ain't  along 
to  he'p  Billy  home  an'  need  Billy's  he'p  to  get 
home,  lots  of  times  Billy  falls  by  the  trail  an' 
puts  in  the  night  among  the  mesquite-bushes  an' 
the  coyotes  impartial. 

"  This  yere  goes  on  for  plumb  a  year,  an'  while 
things  is  cooler  an'  more  distant  between  'em, 


240  Wolfville. 

same  as  it's  bound  to  be  when  two  gents  sleeps 
in  different  camps,  still  'Doby  an'  Billy  is  trackin' 
along  all  right.  One  mornin',  however,  Billy 
goes  down  to  the  holes  they's  projectin'  over, 
but  no  'Doby  shows  up.  It  goes  on  ontil  mighty 
likely  fifth-drink  time  that  forenoon,  an'  as  Billy 
don't  see  no  trace,  sign,  nor  signal-smoke  of  his 
pard,  he  gets  oneasy. 

"'It's  a  fact,'  says  Billy  afterward,  '  thar's 
hours  when  I  more'n  half  allows  this  yere  squaw 
of  'Doby's  has  done  took  a  knife,  or  some  sech 
weepon,  an*  gets  even  with  'Doby,  while  he 
sleeps,  for  me  pluggin'  her  paw  about  the  mule. 
It's  this  yere  idee  which  takes  me  outen  the 
shaft  I'm  sinkin',  an'  sends  me  cavortin'  up  to 
'Doby's  camp.  I  passes  a  resolution  on  my 
way  that  if  she's  cashed  'Doby's  chips  for  him 
that  a-way,  I'll  shorely  sa'nter  over  an'  lay  waste 
all  Chihuahua  to  play  even  for  the  blow.' 

"  But  as  all  turns  out,  them  surmises  of  Billy's 
is  idle.  He  gets  mebbyeasy  six-shooter  distance 
from  the  door,  when  he  discerns  a  small  cry  like 
a  fox-cub's  whine.  Billy  listens,  an'  the  yelp 
comes  as  cl'ar  on  his  y'ears  as  the  whistle  of  a 
curlew.  Billy  tumbles. 

"  '  I'm  a  Chinaman,'  says  Billy, '  if  it  ain't  a  kid  ! ' 

"  So  he  backs  off  quiet  an'  noiseless  ontil  he's 
dead  safe,  an'  then  he  lifts  the  long  yell  for 
'Doby.  When  'Doby  emerges  he  confirms  them 
beliefs  of  Billy's ;  .it's  a  kid  shore-'nough. 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  241 

"  '  Boy  or  girl  ?  '  says  Billy. 

"  '  Boy,'  says  'Doby. 

"  '  Which  I  shorely  quits  you  cold  if  it's  a  girl,' 
says  Billy.  '  As  it  is,  I  stands  by  you  in  your 
troubles.  I  ain't  none  s'prised  at  your  luck, 
'Doby,'  goes  on  Billy.  *  I  half  foresees  some 
sech  racket  as  this  the  minute  you  gets  married. 
However,  if  it's  a  boy  she  goes.  I  ain't  the  gent 
to  lay  down  on  an  old-time  runnin'-mate  while 
luck's  ag'in  him;  an'  I'll  still  be  your  partner 
an'  play  out  my  hand.' 

"  Of  course,  'Doby  has  to  go  back  to  lookout 
his  game.  An'  as  Billy's  that  rent  an'  shaken  by 
them  news  he  can't  work  none,  he  takes  two  or 
three  drinks  of  nose-paint,  an'  then  promulgates 
as  how  it's  a  holiday.  Billy  feels,  too,  that  while 
this  yere's  a  blow,  still  it's  a  great  occasion  ;  an' 
as  he  takes  to  feelin'  his  whiskey  an'  roominatin' 
on  the  tangled  state  of  affairs,  it  suddenly  strikes 
him  he'll  jest  nacherally  close  up  the  trail  by  the 
house. 

"  '  Women  is  frail  people  an'  can't  abide  noises 
that  a-way,'  says  Billy,  *  an'  'Doby's  shore  lookin' 
some  faded  himse'f.  I  reckons,  tharfore,  I'll 
sorter  stop  commerce  along  this  yere  thorough- 
far'  ontil  further  orders.  What  'Doby  an'  his 
squaw  needs  now  is  quietood  an'  peace,  an'  you 
can  wager  all  you-alls  is  worth  they  ain't  goin*  to 
suffer  no  disturbances.' 

"  It  ain't  half  an  hour  after  this  before  Billy's 


242  Wolfville. 

got  two  signs,  both  down  an'  up  the  trail,  warnin' 
of  people  to  hunt  another  wagon-track.  The 
signs  is  made  outen  pine  boards,  an'  Billy  has 
marked  this  yere  motto  onto  'em  with  a  burnt 
stick  : 


'"DoBY's  GOT  A   PapoOsE, 

sO 
puLL  YOUR 


"  It  ain't  no  time  after  Billy  posts  his  warnin's, 
an'  he's  still  musin'  over  'em  mighty  reflective, 
when  along  projects  a  Mexican  with  a  pair  of 
burros  he's  packin'  freight  on.  The  Mexican's 
goin'  by  the  notices  without  payin' the  least  heed 
tharto.  But  this  don't  do  Billy,  an'  he  stands 
him  up. 

"  '  Can  you  read  ?  '  says  Billy  to  the  Mexican, 
at  the  same  time  p'intin'  to  the  signs. 

"  The  Mexican  allows  in  Spanish — which  the 
same  Billy  saveys  an'  palavers  liberal — that  he 
can't  read.  Then  he  p'ints  out  to  go  by  ag'in. 

" '  No  you  don't  none,  onless  in  the  smoke,' 
says  Billy,  an'  throws  a  gun  on  him.  '  Pause 
where  you  be,  my  proud  Castilian,  an'  I'll  flood 
your  darkened  ignorance  with  light  by  nacherally 
readin'  this  yere  inscription  to  you  a  whole  lot.' 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  243 

"  Tharupon  Billy  reads  off  the  notice  a  heap 
impressive,  an'  winds  up  by  commandin'  of  the 
Mexican  to  line  out  on  the  trail  back. 

"  '  Vamos  !  '  says  Billy.  *  Which  if  you  insists 
on  pushin'  along  through  yere  I'll  turn  in  an' 
crawl  your  hump  some.' 

"  But  the  Mexican  gets  ugly  as  a  t'ran'tler  at 
this,  an'  with  one  motion  he  lugs  out  a  six- 
shooter  an'  onbosoms  the  same. 

"  Billy  is  a  trifle  previous  with  a  gun  himse'f, 
an'  while  the  Mexican  is  mighty  abrupt,  he  gets 
none  the  best  of  Billy.  Which  the  outcome  is 
the  Mexican's  shot  plumb  dead  in  his  moccasins, 
while  Billy  takes  a  small  crease  on  his  cheek,  the 
same  not  bein'  deadly.  Billy  then  confiscates 
the  burros. 

"  *  Which  I  plays  'em  in  for  funeral  expenses,' 
says  Billy,  an'  is  turnin'  of  'em  into  the  corral  by 
his  camp  jest  as  'Doby  comes  prancin'  out  with 
a  six-shooter  to  take  part  in  whatever  game  is 
bein'  rolled. 

"When  'Doby  sees  Billy's  signs  that  a-way, 
he's  'fected  so  he  weeps  tears.  He  puts  his  hands 
on  Billy's  shoulder,  an'  lookin'  at  him,  while  his 
eyes  is  swimmin',  he  says  : 

"  '  Billy,  you-all  is  the  thoughtfullest  pard  that 
ever  lived.' 

"  'Doby  throws  so  much  soul  into  it,  an'  him 
g;ivin'  'way  to  emotions,  it  comes  mighty  near 
onhingin'  Billy. 


244  Wolfville* 

"  '  I  knows  I  be,'  he  says,  shakin'  'Doby  by  the 
hand  for  a  minute,  '  but,  Old  Man,  you  deserves 
it.  It's  comin'  to  you,  an'  you  bet  your  life 
you're  goin'  to  get  it.  With  some  folks  this  yere 
would  be  castin'  pearls  before  swine,  but  not 
with  you,  'Doby.  You  can  'predate  a  play,  an' 
I'm  proud  to  be  your  partner.' 

"  The  next  few  months  goes  on,  an'  'Doby  an' 
Billy  keeps  peggin'  away  at  their  claims,  an' 
gettin'  drunk  an'  rich  about  equal.  Billy  is  still 
that  reedic'lous  he  won't  go  up  to  'Doby's  camp  ; 
but  'Doby  comes  over  an'  sees  him  frequent. 
The  first  throw  out  of  the  box  Billy  takes  a 
notion  ag'in  the  kid  an'  allows  he  don't  want  no 
traffic  with  him, — none  whatever. 

"  But  'Doby  won't  have  it  that  a-way,  an*  when 
it's  about  six  months  old  he  packs  said  infant 
over  one  mornin'  while  Billy's  at  breakfast. 

" '  Ain't  he  hell !  '  says  'Doby,  a  heap  gleeful, 
at  the  same  time  sawin'  the  infant  onto  Billy 
direct. 

"  Of  course  Billy  has  to  hold  him  then.  Which 
he  acts  like  he's  a  hot  tamale,  an'  shifts  him 
about  in  his  arms.  But  it's  plain  he  ain't  so  dis- 
pleased neither.  At  last  the  kid  reaches  out 
swift  an'  cinches  onto  Billy's  beard  that  a-way. 
This  delights  Billy,  while  'Doby  keeps  trackin' 
'round  the  room  too  tickled  to  set  down.  All 
he  can  remark — an'  he  does  it  frequent,  like  it 
tells  the  entire  story — is  : 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  245 

"'Billy,  ain't  he  hell?' 

"  An'  Billy  ain't  none  back'ard  admittin'  he  is, 
an'  allows  onhesitatin'  it's  the  hunkiest  baby  in 
Arizona. 

" '  An'  I've  got  dust  into  the  thousands,'  re- 
marks Billy,  *  which  says  he's  the  prize  papoose 
of  the  reservation,  an'  says  it  ten  to  one.  This 
yere  offspring  is  a  credit  to  you,  'Doby,  an'  I 
marvels  you-all  is  that  modest  over  it.' 

"  'You  can  bet  it  ain't  no  Siwash,'  says  'Doby. 
'  It's  clean  strain,  that  infant  is,  if  I  does  say 

it; 

"  *  That's  whatever,'  says  Billy,  looking  the 
infant  over  an'  beginnin'  to  feel  as  proud  of  it  as 
'Doby  himse'f,  '  that's  whatever.  An'  I'm  yere 
to  remark,  any  gent  who  can  up  an'  without  no 
talk  or  boastin'  have  sech  a  papoose  as  that,  is 
licensed  to  plume  himse'f  tharon,  an'  put  on  dog 
over  it,  the  same  without  restraint.  If  ever  you 
calls  the  turn  for  the  limit,  pard,  it's  when  you 
has  this  yere  child.' 

"  At  this  'Doby  an'  Billy  shakes  hands  like  it's 
a  ceremony,  an'  both  is  grave  an'  dignified  about 
it.  'Doby  puts  it  up  that  usual  he's  beyond 
flattery,  but  when  a  gent  of  jedgement  like  Billy 
looks  over  a  play  that  a-way,  an'  indorses  it,  you 
can  bet  he's  not  insensible.  Then  they  shakes 
hands  ag'in,  an'  'Doby  says  : 

"  '  Moreover,  not  meanin'  no  compliments,  nor 
tossin'  of  no  boquets,  old  pard,  me  an'  Manuela 


246  Wolfville. 

names  this  young  person  "  Willyum  "  ;  same  as 
you-all.' 

"  Billy  comes  mighty  near  droppin'  the  infant 
on  the  floor  at  this,  an'  the  small  victim  of  his 
onthoughtfulness  that  a-way  yells  like  a  coyote. 

"  '  That  settles  it/  says  Billy.  '  A  gent  who 
could  come  down  to  blastin'  an'  drillin' — mere 
menial  tasks,  as  they  shorely  be — on  the  heels  of 
honor  like  this,  is  a  mighty  sight  more  sordid 
than  Copper  Queen  Billy  Rudd.  'Doby,  this 
yere  is  a  remarkable  occasion,  an'  we  cel'brates.' 

u  By  this  time  the  infant  is  grown  plumb  hos- 
tile, an'  is  howlin'  to  beat  the  band  ;  so  'Doby 
puts  it  up  he'll  take  him  to  his  mother  an'  after- 
wards he's  ready  to  join  Billy  in  an  orgy. 

" '  I  jest  nacherally  stampedes  back  to  the 
agency  with  this  yere  Willyum  child,'  says 'Doby, 
'  an'  then  we-alls  repairs  to  the  Red  Light  an'  re- 
laxes.' 

"  They  shorely  does.  I  don't  recall  no  sech  de- 
bauch— that  is,  none  so  extreme  an'  broadcast — 
since  Wolfville  and  Red  Dog  engages  in  them 
Thanksgivin'  exercises. 

"  'Doby  an'  Billy,  as  time  goes  by,  allers 
alloods  to  the  infant  as  '  Willyum,'  so's  not  to 
get  him  an'  Billy  mixed  ;  an'  durin'  the  next  two 
years,  while  Billy  still  goes  shy  so  far  as  trackin' 
over  to  'Doby's  ranch  is  concerned,  as  soon  as  he 
walks,  Willyum  comes  down  the  canyon  to  see 
Billy  every  day. 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  247 

"  Oh,  no,  Billy  ain't  none  onforgivin'  to  Manu- 
ela  for  ropin'  up  'Doby  an'  weddin'  him  that 
a-way  ;  but  you  see  downin'  her  paw  for  stealin' 
the  mule  that  time  gets  so  it  makes  him  bashful 
an'  reluctant. 

"'It  ain't  that  I'm  timorous  neither,  nor  yet 
assoomin'  airs,'  this  yere  Billy  says  to  me  when 
he  brings  it  up  himse'f  how  he  don't  go  over  to 
'Doby's,  '  but  I'm  never  no  hand  to  set  'round  an' 
visit  free  an'  easy  that  a-way  with  the  posterity 
of  a  gent  which  I  has  had  cause  to  plant.  This 
yere  ain't  roodness  ;  it's  scrooples,'  says  Billy, 
'  an*  so  it's  plumb  useless  for  me  to  go  gettin' 
sociable  with  'Doby's  wife.' 

"  It's  crowdin'  close  on  two  years  after  the  in- 
fant's born  when  'Doby  an'  Billy  gets  up  their 
feud  which  I  speaks  of  at  the  beginnin'.  Yere's 
how  it  gets  fulminated.  Billy's  loafin'  over  by 
the  post-office  door  one  evenin',  talkin'  to  Tutt 
an'  Boggs  an'  a  passel  of  us,  when  who  comes  pro- 
jectin'  along,  p'intin'  for  the  New  York  Store, 
but  'Doby's  wife  an'  Willyum.  As  they  trails 
by,  Willyum  sees  Billy — Willyum  can  make  a 
small  bluff  at  talkin'  by  now — an',  p'intin'  his 
finger  at  Billy,  he  sags  back  on  his  mother's  dress 
like  he  aims  to  halt  her,  an'  says  : 

"  '  Pop-pa  !  Pop-pa  ! '  meanin'  Billy  that  a-way  ; 
although  the  same  is  erroneous  entire,  as  every 
gent  in  Wolfville  knows. 

"  Which  if  Willyum's  forefinger  he  p'ints  with 


248  Wolfville* 

is  a  Colt's  forty-four,  an'  instead  of  sayin'  *  Pop- 
pa! '  he  onhooks  the  same  at  Billy  direct,  now  I 
don't  reckon  Billy  could  have  been  more  put  out. 
'Doby's  wife  drags  Willyum  along  at  the  time 
like  he's  a  calf  goin'  to  be  branded,  an'  she  never 
halts  or  pauses.  But  Billy  turns  all  kinds  of  hues, 
an*  is  that  prostrated  he  surges  across  to  the  Red 
Light  an'  gets  two  drinks  alone,  never  invitin' 
nobody,  before  he  realizes.  When  he  does  invite 
us  he  admits  frank  he's  plumb  locoed  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  shock. 

"  '  You  bet  ! '  says  Billy,  as  he  gets  his  third 
drink,  the  same  bein'  took  in  common  with  the 
pop'lace  present,  '  you  bet !  thar  ain't  a  gent  in 
camp  I'd  insult  by  no  neglect ;  but  when  Willyum 
makes  them  charges  an'  does  it  publicly,  it  on- 
hinges  my  reason,  an'  them  two  times  I  don't 
invite  you-alls,  I'm  not  responsible.' 

"  We-alls  sees  Billy's  wounded,  an'  tharfore  it's 
a  ha'r-line  deal  to  say  anythin'  ;  but  as  well  as 
we  can  we  tells  him  that  what  Willyum  says,  that 
a-way,  bein'  less'n  two  year  old,  is  the  mere 
prattle  of  a  child,  an*  he's  not  to  be  depressed  by 
it. 

"  *  Sech  breaks/  says  Dan  Boggs, '  is  took  jocose 
back  in  the  States.' 

"  *  Shore  ! '  says  Texas  Thompson,  backin' 
Boggs's  play ;  '  them  little  bluffs  of  infancy, 
gettin'  tangled  that  a-way  about  their  progeni- 
tors, is  regarded  joyous  in  Laredo.  Which  thar's 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners.  249 

not  the  slightest  need  of  Billy  bein'  cast  down 
tharat.' 

"'  I  ain't  sayin'  a  word,  gents/  remarks  Billy, 
an'  his  tones  is  sad.  *  You-alls  means  proper  an' 
friendly.  But  I  warns  the  world  at  this  time  that 
I  now  embarks  on  the  spree  of  my  life.  I'm 
goin'  to  get  drunk  an'  never  hedge  a  bet  ;  an' 
my  last  requests,  the  same  bein'  addressed  to  the 
barkeep,  personal,  is  to  set  every  bottle  of  bug- 
juice  in  the  shebang  on  the  bar,  thar  to  repose 
within  the  reach  of  all  ontil  further  orders.' 

"It's  about  an  hour  later,  an'  Billy,  who's  filed 
away  a  quart  of  fire-water  in  his  interior  by  now, 
is  vibratin'  between  the  Red  Light  an'  the  dance- 
hall,  growin'  drunk  an'  dejected  even  up.  It's 
then  he  sees  'Doby  headin'  up  the  street.  'Doby 
hears  of  his  son  Willyum's  wild  play  from  his  wife, 
an'  it  makes  him  hot  that  a-way.  But  he  ain't 
no  notion  of  blamin'  Billy;  none  whatever. 

"  However,  'Doby  don't  have  entire  charge  of 
the  round-up,  an'  he  has  to  figgerwith  Billy  right 
along. 

"  '  'Doby,'  shouts  Billy,  as  he  notes  his  pard 
approachin',  while  he  balances  himse'f  in  his  moc- 
casins a  heap  difficult,  '  'Doby,  your  infant  Will- 
yum  is  a  eediot.  Which  if  I  was  the  parent  of  a 
fool  papoose  like  Willyum,  I'd  shorely  drop  him 
down  a  shaft  a  whole  lot  an'  fill  up  the  shaft. 
He  won't  assay  two  ounces  of  sense  to  the  ton, 
Willyum  won't ;  an'  he  ain't  worth  powder  an' 


250  Wolfville* 

fuse  to  work  him.  Actooally,  that  pore  imbecile 
baby  Willyum,  don't  know  his  own  father.' 

"  Which  the  rage  of  'Doby  is  beyond  bounds 
complete.  For  about  half  a  minute  him  an'  Billy 
froths  an'  cusses  each  other  out  scand'lous,  an' 
then  comes  the  guns.  The  artillery  is  a  case  of 
s'prise,  the  most  experienced  gent  in  Wolfville 
not  lookin'  for  no  gun-play  between  folks  who's 
been  pards  an'  blanket-mates  for  years. 

"  However,  it  don't  last  long  ;  it  looks  like  both 
gets  sorter  conscience-stricken  that  a-way,  an'  lets 
up.  Still,  while  it's  short,  it's  long  enough  for 
Billy  to  get  his  laig  busted  with  one  of  'Doby's 
bullets,  an'  it  all  lays  Billy  up  for  Doc  Peets  to 
fuss  with  for  over  three  months. 

"  While  Billy's  stretched  out,  an'  Doc  Peets  is 
ridin'  herd  on  his  laig,  'Doby  keeps  as  savage  as 
an  Apache  an*  don't  come  near  Billy.  The  same, 
however,  ain't  full  proof  of  coldness,  neither;  for 
Billy's  done  give  it  out  he'll  down  'Doby  if  he 
pokes  his  head  in  the  door,  an'  arranges  his  guns 
where  he  can  work  'em  in  on  the  enterprise 
easy. 

"But  Willyum  don't  take  no  stand-off.  The 
last  thing  Willyum's  afraid  of  is  Billy ;  so  he 
comes  waltzin'  over  each  day,  clumsy  as  a  cub 
cinnamon  on  his  short  laigs,  an'  makes  himse'f 
plumb  abundant.  He  plays  with  Billy,  an'  he 
sleeps  with  Billy,  Willyum  does ;  an'  he  eats 
every  time  the  nigger,  who's  come  over  from  the 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners*  251 

corral  to  lookout  Billy's  domestic  game  while 
he's  down,  rustles  some  grub. 

"  'Doby's  disgusted  with  Willyum's  herdin' 
'round  with  Billy  that  a-way,  bein'  sociable  an* 
visitin'  of  him,  an'  he  lays  for  Willyum  an'  wal- 
lops him.  When  Billy  learns  of  it — which  he 
does  from  Willyum  himse'f  when  that  infant 
p'ints  in  for  a  visit  the  day  after — he's  as  wild  as 
a  mountain  lion.  Billy  can't  get  out  none,  for 
his  laig  is  a  heap  fragmentary  as  yet, — 'Doby's 
bullet  gettin'  all  the  results  which  is  comin*  that 
time, — but  he  sends  'Doby  word  by  Peets,  if  he 
hears  of  any  more  punishments  bein*  meted  to 
Willyum,  he  regards  it  as  a  speshul  affront  to 
him,  an'  holds  'Doby  responsible  personal  as 
soon  as  he  can  hobble. 

"'Tell  him,' says  Billy,  'that  if  he  commits 
any  further  atrocities  ag'in  this  innocent  Will- 
yum child,  I'll  shore  leave  him  too  dead  to  skin.' 

"'This  yere  Billy's  gettin'  locoed  entire,'  says 
Enright,  when  he's  told  of  Billy's  bluff.  'The 
right  to  maul  your  immediate  descendants  that 
a-way  is  guaranteed  by  the  constitootion,  an'  is 
one  of  them  things  we-alls  fights  for  at  Bunker 
Hill.  However,  I  reckons  Billy's  merely  blowin' 
his  horn  ;  bein'  sick  an'  cantankerous  with  his 
game  knee.' 

"  Billy  gets  well  after  a  while,  an'  him  an' 
'Doby  sorter  plans  to  avoid  each  other.  What- 
ever work  they  puts'  in  on  the  claim  they  holds  in 


252  Wolfville, 

partnership,  they  hires  other  gents  to  do.  Per- 
sonal, each  works  the  claim  he  holds  himse'f, 
which  keeps  'em  asunder  a  whole  lot,  an'  is  froot- 
ful  of  peace.' 

"  Deep  inside  their  shirts  I  allers  allows  these 
yere  persons  deems  high  an'  'fectionate  of  one 
another  right  at  the  time  they's  hangin'  up  their 
hardest  bluffs  an'carryin'  on  most  hostile.  Which 
trivial  incidents  discloses  this. 

"  Once  in  the  Red  Light,  when  a  party  who's 
new  from  Tucson,  turns  in  to  tell  some  light 
story  of  Billy, — him  not  bein'  present  none, — 
'Doby  goes  all  over  this  yere  racontoor  like  a 
landslide,  an'  retires  him  from  s'ciety  for  a  week. 
An'  'Doby  don't  explain  his  game  neither;  jest 
reprimands  this  offensive  Tucson  gent,  an'  lets  it 
go  as  it  lays.  Of  course,  we-alls  onderstands  it's 
'cause  'Doby  ain't  puttin'  up  with  no  carpin' 
criticism  of  his  old  pard ;  which  the  same  is 
nacheral  enough. 

"  Don't  you-all  ever  notice,  son,  how  once  you 
takes  to  fightin'  for  a  party  an'  indorsin'  of  his 
plays,  it  gets  to  be  a  habit, — samer  mebby,  as 
fire-water?  Which  you  lays  for  his  detractors 
an'  pulls  on  war  for  him  that  a-way  long  after 
you  ceases  to  have  the  slightest  use  for  him 
yourse'f.  It's  that  a-way  with  'Doby  about 
Billy. 

"An'  this  yere  Billy's  feelin's  about  'Doby  is 
heated  an'  sedulous  all  sim'lar.  'Doby  gets  laid 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners.  253 

out  for  a  week  by  rheumatics,  which  he  acquires 
years  before — he  shore  don't  rope  onto  them 
rheumatics  none  'round  Wolfville,  you  can  gam- 
ble !  said  camp  bein'  salooberous  that  a-way— 
over  on  the  Nevada  plateaus,  an'  while  he's  treed 
an'  can't  come  down  to  his  claim,  a  passel  of 
sharps  ups  an'  mavericks  it  ;  what  miners  calls 
'jumps  it.'  Whatever  does  Billy  do?  Paints 
for  war  prompt  an'  enthoosiastic,  takes  his  gun, 
an'  the  way  he  stampedes  an'  scatters  them  ma- 
rauders don't  bother  him  a  bit. 

"  But  while,  as  I  states,  this  yere  trick  of 
makin'  war-med'cine  which  'Doby  an'  Billy  has, 
an'  schedoolin'  trouble  for  folks  who  comes  pro- 
jectin'  'round  invadin'  of  the  other's  rights, 
mebby  is  a  heap  habit,  I  gleans  from  it  the 
idee  likewise  that  onder  the  surface  they  holds 
each  other  in  esteem  to  a  p'int  which  is  ro- 
mantic. 

"  'Doby  an'  Billy  lives  on  for  a  year  after 
'Doby  plugs  Billy  in  the  laig,  keepin'  wide  apart 
an*  not  speakin'.  Willyum  is  got  so  he  puts  in 
most  of  his  nights  an'  all  of  his  days  with  Billy ; 
which  the  spectacle  of  Billy  paekin'  Willyum 
about  camp  nights  is  frequent.  'Doby  never 
'pears  to  file  no  protest ;  I  reckons  he  looks  on  it 
as  a  fore-ordained  an'  hopeless  play.  However, 
Billy's  a  heap  careful  of  Willyum's  morals,  an'  is 
shorely  linin'  him  up  right. 

"  Once  a  new  barkeep  in  the  dance-hall  allows 


254  Wolfville. 

he'll  promote  Willyum's  feelin's  some  with  a 
spoonful  of  nose-paint. 

"  *  No,  you  don't,'  says  Billy,  plenty  savage ; 
'an'  since  the  matter  comes  up  I  announces  cold 
that,  now  or  yereafter,  the  first  gent  who  saws 
off  nose-paint  on  Willyum,  or  lays  for  the  morals 
of  this  innocent  infant  to  corrupt  'em,  I'll  kill  an' 
skelp  him  so  shore  as  I  packs  gun  or  knife/ 

"  '  Which  shows,'  said  Dan  Boggs  later,  when 
he  hears  of  Billy's  blazer,  *  that  this  yere  Billy 
Rudd  is  a  mighty  high-minded  gent,  an'  you-alls 
can  play  it  to  win  he  has  my  regards.  He  can 
count  me  in  on  this  deal  to  keep  Willyum  from 
strong  drinks.' 

"  '  I  thinks  myse'f  he's  right,'  says  Cherokee 
Hall.  *  Willyum  is  now  but  three  years  old,  which 
is  shore  not  aged.  My  idee  would  be  to  raise 
Willyum,  an'  not  let  him  drink  a  drop  of  nose- 
paint  ever,  merely  to  show  the  camp  what  comes 
of  sech  experiments.' 

"  But  Billy's  that  pos'tive  an'  self-reliant  he 
don't  need  no  encouragement  about  how  he  con- 
ducts Willyum's  habits;  an',  followin'  his  re- 
marks, Willyum  allers  gets  ignored  complete  on 
invitations  to  licker.  Packin'  the  kid  'round  that 
a-way  shortens  up  Billy's  booze  a  lot,  too.  He 
don't  feel  so  free  to  get  tanked  expansive  with 
Willyum  on  his  mind  an'  hands  that  a-way. 

"  It's  shorely  a  picture,  the  tenderness  Billy 
lavishes  on  Willyum.  Many  a  night  when  Billy's 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners.  255 

stayin'  late,  tryin'  to  win  himse'f  outen  the  hole, 
I  beholds  him  playin'  poker,  or  mebby  it's  faro- 
bank,  with  Willyum  curled  up  on  his  lap  an' 
shirt-front,  snorin'  away  all  sound  an'  genial,  an' 
Billy  makin'  his  raises  an'  callin'  his  draw  to  the 
dealer  in  whispers,  for  fear  he  wakes  Willyum. 

"  But  thar  comes  a  time  when  the  feud  is  over, 
an'  'Doby  an*  Billy  turns  in  better  friends  than 
before.  For  a  month  mebby  thar's  a  Mexican 
girl — which  she's  a  cousin  that  a-way  or  some  kin 
to  'Doby's  wife — who's  been  stayin'  at  'Doby's 
house,  sorter  backin'  their  play. 

"  It  falls  out  frequent  this  Mexican  girl,  Marie, 
trails  over  to  Billy's,  roundin'  up  an'  collectin'  of 
Willyum  to  put  another  shirt  onto  him,  or  some 
sech  benefit.  Billy  never  acts  like  he's  impressed 
by  this  yere  girl,  an',  while  he  relinquishes  Will- 
yum every  time,  he  growls  an'  puts  it  up  he's 
malev'lent  over  it. 

"  But  the  seflorita  is  game,  an'  don't  put  no 
store  by  Billy's  growls.  She  ropes  up  Willyum 
an'  drags  him  away  mighty  decisive.  Willyum 
howls  an'  calls  on  Billy  for  aid,  which  most  likely 
is  pain  to  Billy's  heart ;  but  he  don't  get  it  none. 
The  seflorita  harnesses  Willyum  into  a  clean 
shirt,  an'  then  she  throws  Willyum  loose  on  the 
range  ag'in,  an'  he  drifts  back  to  Billy. 

"  It's  the  general  view  that  Billy  never  once 
thinks  of  wedlock  with  the  seftorita  if  he's  let 
alone.  But  one  day  Doc  Peets  waxes  facetious. 


256  Wolfville. 

"  *  In  a  month,'  says  Peets  to  Billy,  while  we- 
alls  is  renooin'  our  sperits  in  the  Red  Light, 
'  this  yere  Marie'll  quit  comin'  over  for  Will- 
yum.' 

"  '  Why  ?  '  says  Billy,  glarin'  at  Peets  s'picious. 

"  '  'Cause,'  replies  Peets,  all  careless,  *  'cause 
you  ups  an'  weds  her  by  then.  I  sees  it  in  your 
eye.  Then,  when  she's  thar  for  good,  I  reckons 
she  nacherally  quits  comin'  over.' 

"  *  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  says  Texas  Thompson, 
who's  takin'  in  Doc  Peets'  remark  ;  '  I  don't  allow 
Billy's  got  the  nerve  to  marry  this  yere  Marie. 
Not  but  what  she's  as  pretty  as  an  antelope. 
But  think  of  'Doby.  He  jest  never  would  quit 
chewin'  Billy's  mane  if  he  goes  pullin'  off  any 
nuptial  ceremonies  with  his  wife's  relative  that 
a-way.' 

"  Billy  looks  hard  as  granite  at  this.  He  ain't 
sayin'  nothin',  but  he  gets  outside  of  another 
drink  in  a  way  which  shows  his  mind's  made  up, 
an'  then  he  goes  p'intin'  off  towards  his  camp, 
same  as  a  gent  who  entertains  designs. 

"  *  I  offers  three  to  one,'  says  Cherokee  Hall, 
lookin'  after  Billy  sorter  thoughtful  that  a-way, 
'  that  Billy  weds  this  yere  Mexican  girl  in  a 
week  ;  an'  I'll  go  five  hundred  dollars  even  money 
he  gets  her  before  night.' 

"  l  An*  no  takers,'  says  Doc  Peets,  '  for  I  about 
thinks  you  calls  the  turn.' 

"  An'  that's  what  happens.     In  two  hours  after 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners.  257 

this  impulsive  Billy  prances  out  of  the  Red  Light 
on  the  heels  of  Texas  Thompson's  remarks  about 
how  hostile  'Doby  would  be  if  he  ever  gets 
Marie,  he's  done  lured  her  before  \hepadre  over  in 
Chihuahua,  an'  the  padre  marries  'em  as  quick  as 
you  could  take  a  runnin'-iron  an'  burn  a  brand  on 
a  calf. 

"  Which  this  is  not  all.  Like  they  was  out  to 
add  to  the  excitement  a  whole  lot,  I'm  a  Mohave 
if  'Doby  an'  his  wife  don't  turn  loose  an'  have 
another  infant  that  same  day. 

"  I  never  sees  a  gent  get  so  excited  over  an- 
other gent's  game  as  Billy  does  over  'Doby's 
number  two.  He  sends  his  new  wife  up  to 
'Doby's  on  the  run,  while  he  takes  Willyum  an' 
comes  pirootin'  back  to  the  Red  Light  to  brace 
up.  Billy's  shore  nervous  an'  needs  it. 

"  *  My  pore  child,'  says  Billy  to  Willyum  about 
the  third  drink — Willyum  is  settin'  on  a  monte- 
table  an'  payin'  heed  to  Billy  a  heap  decorous 
an'  respectful  for  a  three-year-old — *  my  pore 
child,'  says  Billy  that  a-way,  '  you-all  is  ag'in  a 
hard  game  up  at  your  paw's.  This  yere  is  play- 
in'  it  plumb  low  on  you,  Willyum.  It  looks  like 
they  fills  a  hand  ag'in  you,  son,  an'  you  ain't  in 
it  no  more  at  'Doby's ;  who,  whatever  is  your 
fool  claims  on  that  p'int  a  year  ago,  is  still  your 
dad  ondoubted.  But  you-all  knows  me,  Will- 
yum. You  knows  that  talk  in  Holy  Writ.  If 
your  father  an'  mother  shakes  you,  your  Uncle 


258  Wolfville. 

Billy  takes  you  up.  I'm  powerful  'fraid,  Will- 
yum,  you'll  have  to  have  action  on  them  promises.' 

"  Willyum  listens  to  Billy  plenty  grave  an' 
owly,  but  he  don't  make  no  observations  on  his 
luck  or  communicate  no  views  to  Billy  except 
that  he's  hungry.  This  yere  ain't  relevant  none, 
but  Billy  at  once  pastures  him  out  on  a  can  of 
sardines  an'  some  crackers,  while  he  keeps  on 
bein'  liberal  to  himse'f  about  whiskey. 

"  '  I  don't  feel  like  denyin'  myse'f  nothin','  he 
says.  *  Yere  I  gets  married,  an'  in  less'n  an  hour 
my  wife  is  ravaged  away  at  the  whoop  of  dooty 
to  ride  herd  on  another  gent's  fam'ly  ;  leavin*  me, 
her  husband,  with  that  other  gent's  abandoned 
progeny  on  my  hands.  This  yere's  gettin'  to  be 
a  boggy  ford  for  Billy  Rudd,  you  bet.' 

"  But  while  Billy  takes  on  a  heap,  he  don't  im- 
press me  like  he's  hurt  none  after  all.  When  Doc 
Peets  trails  in  from  'Doby's,  where  he's  been  in 
the  interests  of  science  that  a-way,  Billy  at  once 
drug  him  aside  for  a  pow-wow.  They  talks  over 
in  one  corner  of  the  Red  Light  awhile,  then  Billy 
looks  up  like  one  load's  offen  his  mind,  an'  yells : 

"  '  Barkeep,  it's  another  boy.  Use  my  name 
freely  in  urgin'  drinks  on  the  camp.' 

"  Then  Billy  goes  on  whisperin'  to  Doc  Peets 
an'  layin'  down  somethin',  like  his  heart's  sot  on 
it.  At  last  Doc  says  : 

" '  The  best  way,  Billy,  is  for  me  to  bring 
'Doby  over.'  With  this  Doc  Peets  gets  onto 


Dawson  &  Rudd,  Partners.  259 

his  pony  at  the  door  an'  goes  curvin'  back  to 
'Doby's. 

"  '  It's  a  boy/  says  Billy  to  the  rest  of  us  after 
Doc  Peets  lines  out,  '  an'  child  an'  mother  both 
on  velvet  an'  winnin'  right  along.' 

"  These  yere  events  crowdin'  each  other  that 
a-way — first  a  weddin'  an'  then  an  infant  boy — 
has  a  brightenin'  effect  on  public  sperit.  It 
makes  us  feel  like  the  camp's  shorely  gettin'  a 
start.  While  we-alls  is  givin'  way  to  Billy's  de- 
sire to  buy  whiskey,  Peets  comes  back,  bringin' 
'Doby. 

"  Thar's  nothin'  what  you-alls  calls  dramatic 
about  'Doby  an'  Billy  comin'  together.  They 
meets  an'  shakes,  that's  all.  They  takes  a  drink 
together,  which  shows  they's  out  to  be  friends 
for  good,  an'  then  Billy  says  : 

" '  But  what  I  wants  partic'lar,  'Doby,  is  that 
you  makes  over  to  me  your  son  Willyum.  .He's 
shore  the  finest  young-one  in  Arizona,  an'  Marie 
an'  me  needs  him  to  sorter  organize  on.' 

"  '  Billy,'  says  'Doby,  *  you-all  an'  me  is  partners 
for  years,  an'  we're  partners  yet.  We  has  our 
storm  cloud,  an'  we  has  also  our  eras  of  peace. 
Standin'  as  we  do  on  the  brink  of  one  of  said 
eras,  an'  as  showin'  sincerity,  I  yereby  commits 
to  you  my  son  Willyum.  Yereafter,  when  he 
calls  you  "  Pop,"  it  goes,  an'  the  same  will  not  be 
took  invidious.' 

" '  'Doby,'    replies     Billy,    takin'    him    by   the 


260  Wolfville. 

hand,  *  this  yere  day  'lustrates  the  prophet  when 
he  says:  "In  the  midst  of  life  we're  in  luck." 
If  you-all  notes  tears  in  my  eyes  I'm  responsible 
for  'em.  Willyum's  mine.  As  I  r'ars  him  it  will 
be  with  you  as  a  model.  Now  you  go  back 
where  dooty  calls  you.  When  you  ceases  to 
need  my  wife,  Marie,  send  her  back  to  camp,  an' 
notify  me  tharof.  Pendin'  of  which  said  notice, 
however,'  concloods  Billy,  turnin*  to  us  after 
'Doby  starts  back,  *  Willyum  an'  me  enter- 
tains.' " 


CHAPTER  XDL 
Mace  Bowman,  Sheriff* 

"  AND  so  you  think  the  trouble  lies  with  the 
man  and  not  with  the  whiskey  ?  "  I  said. 

The  Old  Cattleman  and  I  were  discussing 
"  temperance." 

"  Right  you  be.  This  yere  whiskey-drinkin'," 
continued  the  old  gentleman  as  he  toyed  with  his 
empty  glass,  "is  a  mighty  cur'ous  play.  I  knows 
gents  as  can  tamper  with  their  little  old  forty 
drops  frequent  an'  reg'lar.  As  far  as  hurtin'  of 
'em  is  concerned,  it  don't  come  to  throwin'  water 
on  a  drowned  rat.  Then,  ag'in,  I've  cut  gents's 
trails  as  drinkin'  whiskey  is  like  playin'  a  harp 
with  a  hammer.  Which  we-alls  ain't  all  uphol- 
stered alike  ;  that's  whatever.  We  don't  all 
show  the  same  brands  an'  y'earmarks  nohow. 
What's  med'cine  for  one  is  p'isen  for  t'other; 
an'  thar  you  be. 

"  Bein'  a  reg'lar,  reliable  drunkard  that  a-way 
comes  mighty  near  bein'  a  disease.  It  ain't  no 
question  of  nerve,  neither.  Some  dead-game 
gents  I  knows — an'  who's  that  obstinate  they 
wouldn't  move  camp  for  a  prairie-fire — couldn't 
pester  a  little  bit  with  whiskey. 


262  Wolfville. 

"  Thar's  my  friend,  Mace  Bowman.  Mace  is 
clean  strain  cl'ar  through,  an'  yet  I  don't  reckon 
he  ever  gets  to  a  show-down  with  whiskey  once 
which  he  ain't  outheld.  But  for  grim  nerve  as'll 
never  shiver,  this  yere  Bowman  is  at  par  every 
time. 

"  Bowman  dies  a  prey  to  his  ambition.  He 
starts  in  once  to  drink  all  the  whiskey  in  Wolf- 
ville.  By  his  partic'lar  request  most  of  the 
white  male  people  of  the  camp  stands  in  on  the 
deal,  a-backin'  his  play  for  to  make  Wolfville  a 
dry  camp.  At  the  close  of  them  two  lurid  weeks 
Mace  lasts,  good  jedges,  like  Enright  an'  Doc 
Peets,  allows  he's  shorely  made  it  scarce  some. 

"  But  Wolfville's  too  big  for  him.  Any  other 
gent  but  Mace  would  have  roped  at  a  smaller 
outfit,  but  that  wouldn't  be  Mace  nohow.  If 
thar's  a  bigger  camp  than  Wolfville  anywhere 
about,  that's  where  he'd  been.  He's  mighty 
high-hearted  an'  ambitious  that  a-way,  an'  it's 
kill  a  bull  or  nothin'  when  he  lines  out  for  buf- 
falo. 

"  But  the  thirteenth  day,  he  strikes  in  on  the 
big  trail,  where  you  never  meets  no  outfits 
comin'  back,  an'  that  settles  it.  The  boys,  not 
havin'  no  leader,  with  Mace  petered,  gives  up  the 
game,  an'  the  big  raid  on  nose-paint  in  Wolfville 
is  only  hist'ry  now. 

"  When  I  knows  Bowman  first  he's  sheriff  over 
in  northeast  New  Mexico.  A  good  sheriff  Mace 


Mace  Bowman,  Sheriff.  263 

is,  too.  Thar  ain't  nothin'  gets  run  off  while 
he's  sheriff,  you  bet.  When  he  allows  anythin's 
his  dooty,  he  lays  for  it  permiscus.  He's  a 
plumb  sincere  offishul  that  a-way. 

"  One  time  I  recalls  as  how  a  wagon-train  with 
households  of  folks  into  it  camps  two  or  three 
days  where  Mace  is  sheriff.  These  yere  people's 
headin'  for  some'ers  down  on  the  Rio  Grande, 
aimin'  to  settle  a  whole  lot.  Mebby  it's  the 
third  mornin'  along  of  sun-up  when  they  strings 
out  on  the  trail,  an'  we-alls  thinks  no  more  of 
'em.  It's  gettin'  about  third-drink  time  when 
back  rides  a  gent,  sorter  fretful  like,  an'  allows 
he's  done  shy  a  boy. 

"  '  When  do  you-all  see  this  yere  infant  last  ?  ' 
says  Mace. 

"  '  Why,'  says  the  gent,  *  I  shorely  has  him  yes- 
terday, 'cause  my  old  woman  done  rounds  'em  up 
an'  counts.' 

"  '  What  time  is  that  yesterday  ?  ' 

"  '  'Bout  first-drink  time,'  says  the  bereaved 
party. 

"  '  How  many  of  these  yere  offsprings,  corral 
count,  do  you-all  lay  claim  to  anyway  ? '  asks 
Mace. 

"  '  Which  I've  got  my  brand  onto  'leven  of  'em,' 
says  the  pore  parent,  beginnin'  to  sob  a  whole 
lot.  '  Of  course  this  yere  young-one  gettin' 
strayed  this  a-way  leaves  me  short  one.  It 
makes  it  a  mighty  rough  crossin',  stranger,  after 


264  Wolfville. 

bringin'  that  boy  so  far.  The  old  woman,  she 
bogs  right  down  when  she  knows,  an'  I  don't 
reckon  she'll  be  the  same  he'pmeet  to  me  onless 
I  finds  him  ag'in.' 

" '  Oh,  well,'  says  Mace,  tryin'  to  cheer  this  be- 
reft person  up,  *  we  lose  kyards  in  the  shuffle 
which  the  same  turns  up  all  right  in  the  deal ;  an' 
I  reckons  we-alls  walks  down  this  yearlin'  of  yours 
ag'in,  too.  What  for  brands  or  y'earmarks,  does 
he  show,  so  I'll  know  him.' 

"  'As  to  brands  an'  y'earmarks/  says  the  party, 
a-wipin'  of  his  eye,  *  he's  shy  a  couple  of  teeth, 
bein'  milk-teeth  as  he's  shed ;  an'  thar's  a  mark 
on  his  for'ard  where  his  mother  swipes  him  with 
a  dipper,  that  a-way,  bringin'  him  up  proper. 
That's  all  I  remembers  quick.' 

"  Mace  tells  the  party  to  take  a  cinch  on  his 
feelin's,  an'  stampedes  over  to  the  Mexican  part 
of  camp,  which  is  called  Chilili,  on  a  scout  for 
the  boy.  Whatever  do  you-all  reckon's  become 
of  him,  son  ?  I'm  a  wolf  if  a  Mexican  ain't  some- 
how cut  him  out  of  the  herd  an'  stole  him. 
Takes  him  in,  same  as  you  mavericks  a  calf. 
Why  in  the  name  of  hoss-stealin'  he  ever  yearns 
for  that  young-one  is  allers  too  many  for  me. 

"  When  the  abductor  hears  how  Mace  is  on  his 
trail,  which  he  does  from  other  Mexicans,  he 
swings  onto  his  bronco  an'  begins  p'intin'  out, 
takin'  boy  an'  all.  But  Mace  has  got  too  far  up 
on  him,  an*  stops  him  mighty  handy  with  a  rifle. 


Mace  Bowman,  Sheriff.  265 

Mace  could  work  a  Winchester  like  you'd  whirl 
a  rope,  an'  the  way  he  gets  a  bullet  onder  that 
black-an'-tan's  left  wing  don't  worry  him  a  little 
bit.  The  bullet  tears  a  hole  through  his  lungs, 
an'  the  same  bein'  no  further  use  for  him  to 
breathe  with,  he  comes  tumblin'  like  a  shot 
pigeon,  bringin'  the  party's  offspring  with  him. 

"  Which  this  yere  is  almighty  flatterin'  to  Mace 
as  a  shot,  an'  it  plumb  tickles  the  boy's  sire.  He 
allows  he's  lived  in  Arkansaw,  an'  shorely  knows 
good  shootin',  an'  this  yere's  speshul  good.  An' 
then  he  corrals  the  Greaser's  skelp  to  take  back 
with  him. 

"  '  It'll  come  handy  to  humor  up  the  old  woman 
with,  when  I  gets  back  to  camp,'  he  says ;  so  he 
tucks  the  skelp  into  his  war-bags  an'  thanks  Mace 
for  the  interest  he  takes  in  his  household. 

"  '  That's  all  right,'  says  Mace  ;  *  no  trouble  to 
curry  a  little  short  hoss  like  that.' 

"He  shakes  hands  with  the  Arkansaw  gent, 
an'  we-alls  rounds  up  to  Bob  Step's  an'  gets  a 
drink. 

"But  the  cat  has  quite  a  tail  jest  the  same. 
A  Mexican  that  a-way  is  plenty  oncertain.  For 
instance:  You're  settin'  in  on  a  little  game  of 
monte  all  free  an'  sociable,  an'  one  of  'em  comes 
crowdin'  'round  for  trouble,  an'  you  downs  him. 
All  good  enough,  says  you.  No  other  Mexican 
seems  like  he  wants  to  assoome  no  pressure  per- 
sonal ;  no  one  goes  browsin'  'round  to  no  sheriff  ; 


266  Wolfville. 

an'  thar  you  be  deluded  into  theeries  that  said 
killin's  quit  bein'  a  question.  That's  where  you- 
all  is  the  victim  of  error. 

"  Which  in  this  case  the  Mexican  Mace 
stretches  has  uncles  or  somethin'  down  off  Chap- 
erita.  Them  relatives  is  rich.  In  a  week — no 
one  never  saveys  how — everybody  knows  that 
thar's  five  thousand  dollars  up  for  the  first  party 
who  kills  Mace.  I  speaks  to  him  about  it  my- 
se'f,  allowin'  he'd  oughter  be  careful  how  he 
goes  spraddlin'  about  permiscus.  Mebby,  when 
he's  lookin'  north  some  time,  somebody  gets  him 
from  the  south. 

"  *  I  ain't  worryin'  none,'  says  Mace  ; '  *  I  ain't 
got  no  friends  as  would  down  me,  nohow ;  an' 
my  enemies  ain't  likely  none  to  think  it's  enough 
dinero.  Killin'  me  is  liable  to  come  mighty 

high.- 

"  After  which  announcements  he  goes  romanc- 
in'  along  in  his  cheerful,  light-hearted  way,  drink- 
in'  his  whiskey  an'  bein'  sheriff,  mingled,  an'  in 
a  week  or  so  we-alls  begins  to  forget  about  them 
rewards.  One  day  a  little  Mexican  girl  who 
Mace  calls  Bonita — she'd  shorely  give  a  hoss 
for  a  smile  from  him  any  time — scouts  over  an' 
whispers  to  Mace  as  how  three  Greasers  from 
down  around  Anton  Chico  is  in  camp  on  a 
hunt  for  his  ha'r.  Them  murderers  is  out  for 
the  five  thousand  ;  they's  over  in  Chilili  right 
then. 


Mace  Bowman,  Sheriff.  267 

"  '  Whereabouts  in  Chilili  be  them  Mexicans  ?  ' 
asks  Mace,  kinder  interested. 

" '  Over  camped  in  old  Santa  Anna's  dance- 
hall,  a-drinkin'  of  mescal  an'  waitin'  for  dark,' 
says  the  girl. 

"'  All  right,'  says  Mace  ;  '  I'll  prance  over  poco 
tieinpo,  an'  it's  mighty  likely  them  aliens  from 
Anton  Chico  is  goin'  to  have  a  fitful  time.' 

"  Mace  kisses  the  little  Bonita  girl,  an'  tells 
her  not  to  chirp  nothin'  to  no  Mexican  ;  an'  with 
the  caress  that  a-way  her  black  eyes  gets  blacker 
an'  brighter,  an'  the  red  comes  in  her  cheek,  an' 
bats  could  see  she'd  swap  the  whole  Mexican 
outfit  for  a  word  from  Mace,  an'  throw  herse'f 
in  for  laniyap. 

"  Mace  p'ints  out  to  get  another  gun  ;  which  is 
proper  enough,  for  he's  only  one  in  his  belt,  an' 
in  a  case  like  this  yere  he's  mighty  likely  to  need 
two  a  lot. 

"  '  Some  of  us  oughter  go  over  with  Mace,  I 
reckons,'  says  a  party  named  Benson,  sorter  gen- 
eral to  the  crowd.  *  What  do  you-alls  think 
yourse'fs  ? ' 

" '  Go  nothin'  ! '  retorts  a  gent  who's  called 
Driscoll,  an*  who's  up  to  the  hocks  into  a  game 
of  poker,  an'  don't  like  to  see  it  break  up  an'  him 
behind.  '  The  hand  Mace  holds  don't  need  no 
he'p.  If  Mace  is  out  after  two  or  three  of  the 
boys  now,  it  would  be  plenty  different ;  but  who- 
ever hears  of  a  white  man's  wantin'  he'p  that 


268  Wolfville. 

a-way  to  down  three  Greasers,  an'  him  to  open 
the  game  ?  Mace  could  bring  back  all  the  skelps 
in  Chilili  if  he's  that  f'rocious  an'  wants  to,  an' 
not  half  try.' 

"  This  seems  to  be  the  general  idee,  an',  aside 
of  some  bets  which  is  made,  no  one  takes  no  in- 
terest. Bob  Short  puts  it  up  he'd  bet  a  hundred 
dollars  even  Mace  gets  one  of  'em  ;  a  hundred  to 
two  hundred  he  gets  two,  an'  a  hundred  to  five 
hundred  he  gets  'em  all;  an'  some  short-kyard 
sharp  who's  up  from  Socorro,  after  figgerin'  it  all 
silent  to  himse'f,  takes  'em  all. 

" '  Now  I  don't  reckon,  stranger,'  says  Benson, 
sorter  reproachful,  to  the  short-kyard  party,  *  you 
knows  Mace  Bowman  mighty  well?  If  you-all 
did  you  wouldn't  go  up  ag'in  a  shore  thing  like 
that.' 

"  We  never  gets  anythin'  but  Mace's  story  for 
it.  He  tells  later  how  he  sa'nters  into  Santa 
Anna's  an'  finds  his  three  Anton  Chico  felons  all 
settin'  alone  at  a  table.  They  knows  him,  he 
says,  an'  he  camps  down  over  opp'site  an'  calls 
for  a  drink.  They's  watchin'  M-ace,  an'  him 
doin'  sim'lar  by  them.  Final,  he  says,  one  of 
'em  makes  a  play  for  his  gun,  an',  seein'  thar's 
nothin'  to  be  made  waitin',  Mace  jumps  up  with 
a  six-shooter  in  each  hand,  an'  thar's  some  noise 
an'  a  heap  of  smoke,  an'  them  three  Mexicans  is 
eliminated  in  a  bunch. 

"  When  he  plays  his  hand  out  Mace  comes  back 


Mace  Bowman,  Sheriff.  269 

over  to  us — no  other  Mexicans  allowin'  for  to 
call  him — an'  relates  how  it  is,  an'  nacheral  we 
says  it's  all  right,  which  it  shorely  is.  I  asks  old 
Santa  Anna  for  the  details  of  the  shake-up  later, 
but  he  spreads  his  hands,  an'  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders, an'  whines : 

"  '  No  quien  sabe? 

"  An',  of  course,  as  I  can't  tell,  an'  as  Santa 
Anna  don't,  I  gives  up  askin'." 


CHAPTER  XX. 
A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving. 

IT  was  in  the  earlier  days  of  autumn.  Summer 
had  gone,  and  there  was  already  a  crisp  sentiment 
of  coming  cold  in  the  air.  The  Old  Cattleman 
and  I  had  given  way  to  a  taste  for  pedestrianism 
that  had  lain  dormant  through  the  hot  months. 
It  was  at  the  close  of  our  walk,  and  we  were 
slowly  making  our  way  homeward. 

"  An'  now  the  year's  got  into  what  hoss-folks 
calls  the  last  quarter,"  remarked  the  old  gentle- 
man musingly.  "You  can  feel  the  frost  in  the 
atmosphere  ;  you  can  see  where  it's  bit  the  leaves 
a  lot,  an'  some  of  'em's  pale  with  the  pain,  an' 
others  is  blood-red  from  the  wound. 

"Which  I  don't  regard  winter  much,  say  twenty 
years  ago.  Thar's  many  a  night  when  I  spreads 
my  blankets  in  the  Colorado  hills,  flakes  of  snow 
a-fallin'  as  soft  an'  big  an'  white  as  a  woman's 
hand,  an'  never  heeds  'em  a  little  bit.  But  th~m 
days  is  gone.  Thar's  no  roof  needed  in  my  des- 
tinies then.  An*  as  for  bed,  a  slicker  an'  a  pair 
of  hobbles  is  sumptuous. 

"  When  a  gent  rounds  up  seventy  years  he's 


A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving,  271 

mighty  likely  to  get  a  heap  interested  in  weather. 
It's  the  heel  of  the  hunt  with  him  then,  an'  he's 
worn  an'  tired,  and  turns  nacherally  to  rest  an' 
fire." 

We  plodded  forward  as  he  talked.  To  his 
sage  comments  on  the  seasons,  and  as  well  the 
old  age  of  men,  I  offered  nothing.  My  silence, 
however,  seemed  always  to  meet  with  his  tacit 
approval ;  nor  did  he  allow  it  to  impede  his  con- 
versational flow. 

"  Well,"  observed  the  old  fellow,  after  a  pause, 
"  I  reckons  I'll  see  the  winter  through  all  right ; 
likewise  the  fall.  I'm  a  mighty  sight  like  that 
old  longhorn  who  allows  he's  allers  noticed  if  he 
lives  through  the  month  of  March  he  lives  through 
the  rest  of  the  year ;  so  I  riggers  I'll  hold  together 
that  a-way  ontil  shorely  March  comin'.  Anyhow 
I  regards  it  as  an  even  break  I  does. 

"  Thar's  one  thing  about  fall  an'  winter  which 
removes  the  dreariness  some.  I  alloods  to  them 
festivals  sech  as  Thanksgivin'  an'  Christmas  an' 
New  Year.  Do  we-alls  cel'brate  these  yere 
events  in  Wolfville  ?  Which  we  shorely  does. 
Take  Christmas :  You-all  couldn't  find  a  sober 
gent  in  Wolfville  on  that  holy  occasion  with  a 
search-warrant ;  the  feelin'  to  cel'brate  is  that 
wide-spread  an*  fervid. 

"  Thanksgivin'  ain't  so  much  lotted  on  ;  which 
for  one  thing  we  frequent  forgets  it  arrives  that 
a-way.  Thar's  once,  though,  when  we  takes 


272  Wolfville, 

note  of  its  approach,  an'  nacherally,  bein'  organ- 
ized, we  ketches  it  squar'  in  the  door.  Them 
Thanksgivin'  doin's  is  shorely  great  festivities 
that  time.  It's  certainly  a  whirl. 

*•  Old  Man  Enright  makes  the  first  break ;  he 
sorter  arranges  the  game.  But  before  all  is  over, 
the  food  we  eats,  the  whiskey  we  drinks,  an'  the 
lies  we  tells  an'  listens  to,  is  a  shock  an'  a  shame 
to  Arizona. 

'*  Thar's  a  passel  of  us  prowlin'  'round  in  the 
Red  Light  one  day,  when  along  comes  Enright. 
He's  got  a  paper  in  his  hand,  an'  from  the  air  lie 
assooms  it's  shore  plain  he's  on  the  brink  of  some- 
thin'. 

"  *  What  I'm  thinkin'  of,  gents,  is  this/  says  En- 
right,  final.  '  I  observes  to-morrow  to  be  Thanks- 
givin' by  this  yere  paper  Old  Monte  packs  in 
from  Tucson.  The  Great  Father  sets  to-morrow 
for  a  national  blow-out,  a-puttin'  of  it  in  his 
message  on  the  broad  ground  that  everybody's 
lucky  who  escapes  death.  Now,  the  question  is, 
be  we  in  this  ?  an'  if  so,  what  form  the  saturnalia 
takes  ? ' 

"'What's  the  matter  of  us  hoppin'  over  an' 
shootin'  up  Red  Dog?  "  says  Dan  Boggs.  '  That 
bunch  of  tarrapins  ain't  been  shook  up  none  for 
three  months.' 

"  *  Technical  speakin','  says  Doc  Peets — which 
Peets,  he  shorely  is  the  longest-headed  sharp  I 
ever  sees,  an'  the  galiest — '  shootin'  up  Red  Dog, 


A  "Wolfville  Thanksgiving.  273 

while  it's  all  right  as  a  prop'sition  an'  highly 
creditable  to  Boggs,  is  not  a  Thanksgivin'  play. 
The  game,  turned  strict,  confines  itse'f  to  eatin', 
drinkin',  an'  lyinV 

"  *  Thar's  plenty  of  whiskey  in  camp,'  says  Jack 
Moore,  meditative-like,  *  whereby  that  drinkin' 
part  comes  easy.' 

" '  I  assooms  it's  the  will  of  all  to  pull  off  a 
proper  Thanksgivin'  caper,'  says  Enright,  '  an' 
tharfore  I  su'gests  that  Doc  Peets  and  Boggs 
waits  on  Missis  Rucker  at  the  O.  K.  restauraw 
an'  learns  what  for  a  banquet  she  can  rustle  an' 
go  the  limit.  Pendin'  the  return  of  Peets  an' 
Boggs  I  allows  the  balance  of  this  devoted  band 
better  imbibe  some.  Barkeep,  sort  out  some 
bottles.' 

"  The  committee  comes  back  after  a  little,  an' 
allows  Missis  Rucker  reports  herse'f  shy  on 
viands  on  account  of  the  freighters  bein'  back- 
'ard  comin'  in. 

" '  But,'  says  Peets,  '  she's  upholstered  to  make 
a  strong  play  on  salt  hoss  an*  baked  beans,  with 
coffee  an'  biscuits  for  games  on  the  side.' 

"  '  That's  good  enough  for  a  dog,'  says  Jack 
Moore,  '  to  say  nothin'  of  mere  people.  Any 
gent  who  thinks  he  wants  more  is  the  effect 
victim  of  whims.' 

"While  we-alls  is  discussin' the  ground  plans 
for  this  yere  feast,  thar's  a  clatter  of  pony-hoofs 
an'  a  wild  yell  outside,  an'  next  thar's  a  big, 


274  Wolfville. 

shaggy-lookin'  vagrant,  a-settin'  on  his  hoss  in 
front  of  the  Red  Light's  door. 

"  '  Get  an  axe,  somebody/  he  shouts, '  an'  widen 
this  yere  portal  some.  I  aims  to  come  in  on  my 
hoss.' 

"  *  Hands  up,  thar ! '  says  Jack  Moore,  reachin' 
for  his  six-shooter.  '  Hands  up  !  I'll  jest  fool  you 
up  about  comin'  in  on  your  hoss.  You  work  in 
one  wink  too  many  now,  an'  I  puts  a  hole  in 
your  face  right  over  the  eye.' 

"'Go  slow,  Jack,' says  Enright.  'Who  may 
you-all  be  ? '  he  goes  on  to  the  locoed  man  on  the 
hoss. 

"  '  Me?  '  says  the  locoed  man.  '  I'm  Red  Dog 
Bill.  Tell  that  sot,'  he  continues,  p'intin'  at 
Jack,  '  to  put  down  his  gun  an'  not  offer  it  at  me 
no  more.  He's  a  heap  too  vivid  with  that 
weepon.  Only  I'm  a  white-winged  harbinger  of 
peace,  I  shore  ups  an'  makes  him  eat  the  muzzle 
offen  it/ 

" '  Well,  whatever  be  you  thirstin'  for,  any- 
how?' says  Enright.  'You  comes  ridin'  in  yere 
like  you  ain't  got  no  regards  for  nothin'.  Is  this 
a  friendly  call,  or  be  you  present  on  a  theery  that 
you  runs  the  town  ?  ' 

"  '  I'm  the  Red  Dog  committee  on  invitations,* 
he  says.  '  Red  Dog  sends  its  comps,  an*  asks 
Wolfville  to  bury  the  hatchet  for  one  day  in 
honor  of  to-morrow  bein'  Thanksgiving  an'  come 
feed  with  us/ 


A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving.  275 

"  '  Let's  go  him,'  says  Dan  Boggs. 

"  '  Now  stand  your  hand  a  second,'  says  En- 
right,  *  don't  let's  overlook  no  bets.  Whatever 
has  you  Red  Dog  hold-ups  got  to  eat,  anyhow  ?  ' 

"  '  Ain't  got  nothin'  to  eat  much — maybe  some 
can  stuff — what  you-alls  calls  air-tights,'  says  the 
Red  Dog  man.  *  But  we  has  liquid,  no  limit.' 

"  *  Got  any  can  tomatters  ?  '  says  Boggs. 

"'Can  tomatters  we-alls  is  'speshul  strong  on,' 
says  the  Red  Dog  man.  *  It's  where  we-alls  lives 
at ;  can  tomatters  is.' 

"  *  I  tells  you  what  you-all  do,'  says  Enright, 
'  an'  when  I  speaks,  I  represents  for  this  yere 
camp.' 

"  *  Which  he  shore  does,'  says  Jack.  '  He's 
the  Big  Gray  Wolf  yere,  you  can  gamble.  If  he 
don't  say  "  go  slow  "  when  you  comes  a-yellin' 
up,  your  remains  would  a-been  coverin'  half  an 
acre  right  now.  It  would  look  like  it's  beef-day 
at  this  yere  agency,  shore.' 

"'  You-all  go  back  to  Red  Dog,'  says  Enright, 
payin'  no  notice  to  Jack's  interruptions,  *  an'  tell 
'em  we  plants  the  war-axe  for  one  day,  an'  to 
come  over  an'  smoke  ponies  with  us,  instead  of 
we-alls  come  thar.  We're  goin'  to  have  baked 
beans  an'  salt  hoss,  an'  we  looks  for  Red  Dog  in  a 
body.  Next  Thanksgivin'  we  eats  in  Red  Dog. 
Does  this  yere  go  ?  ' 

"  '  It  goes,'  says  the  Red  Dog  gent ;  '  but  be 
you-alls  shore  thar's  sufficient  whiskey  in  your 


276  Wolfville* 

camp  ?  Red  Dog  folks  is  a  dry  an'  burnin*  outfit, 
an'  is  due  to  need  a  heap.' 

"  '  The  liquid's  all  right,'  says  Boggs.  '  If  you- 
alls  wants  to  do  yourse'f  proud,  freight  in  a  hun- 
dred-weight of  them  can  tomatters.  Which  we 
runs  out  entire.' 

"  The  next  day  Missis  Rucker  sets  tables  all 
over  her  dinin'-room  an'  brings  on  her  beans. 
Eighteen  Red  Dog  gents  is  thai*,  each  totin'  of  a 
can  of  tomatters.  An'  let  me  impart  right  yere, 
son,  we  never  has  a  more  free  an'  peacefuller  day 
than  said  Thanksgivin'. 

"''Them  beans  is  a  little  hard,  ain't  they?' 
says  Doc  Peets,  while  we-alls  is  eatin',  bein'  p'lite 
an'  elegant  like.  '  Mebby  they  don't  get  b'iled 
Efficient?' 

"  *  Them  beans  is  all  right,'  says  the  War  Chief 
of  the  Red  Dogs.  *  They  be  some  hard,  but  you 
can't  he'p  it  none.  It's  the  altitood ;  the  higher 
up  you  gets,  the  lower  heat  it  takes  to  b'ile 
water.  So  it  don't  mush  up  beans  like  it  should.' 

" '  That's  c'rrect  every  time,'  says  Enright ;  l  I 
mind  bein'  over  back  of  Prescott  once,  an'  up 
near  timber-line,  an'  I  can't  b'ile  no'  beans  at  all. 
I'm  up  that  high  the  water  is  so  cold  when  it 
b'iles  that  ice  forms  on  it  some.  I  b'iles  an' 
b'iles  on  some  beans  four  days,  an'  it  don't  have 
no  more  effect  than  throwin'  water  on  a  drowned 
rat.  After  persistent  b'ilin',  I  skims  out  a  hand- 
ful an*  drops  'em  onto  a  tin  plate  to  test  'em,  an* 


A  Wolf ville  Thanksgiving,  277 

it  sounds  like  buckshot.  As  you  says,  it's  the 
altitood.' 

"'  Gents,'  says  the  boss  of  Red  Dog,  all  of  a 
sudden,  an'  standin'  up  by  Enright,  '  I  offers  the 
toast :  "  Wolfville  an'  Red  Dog,  now  an'  yere- 
after."  ' 

"  Of  course  we-alls  drinks,  an'  Doc  Peets  makes 
a  talk.  He  speaks  mighty  high  of  every  gent 
present ;  which  compliments  gets  big  action  in 
sech  a  game.  The  Red  Dog  chief — an'  he's  a 
mighty  civilized-lookin'  gent — he  talks  back,  an' 
calls  Wolfville  an'  Red  Dog  great  commercial 
centers,  which  they  shore  be.  He  says,  'We- 
alls  is  friendly  to-day,  an'  rights  the  rest  of  the 
year,1  which  we-alls  agrees  to  cordial.  He  says 
fightin',  or,  as  he  calls  it,  '  a  generous  rivalry,' 
does  camps  good,  an'  I  reckons  he's  right,  too, 
'cause  it  shore  results  in  the  cashin'  in  of  some 
mighty  bad  an*  disturbin"  elements.  When  he 
sets  down,  thar's  thunders  of  applause. 

"  It's  by  this  time  that  the  drinkin'  becomes 
frequent  an'  common.  The  talk  gets  general,  an' 
the  lies  them  people  evolves  an*  saws  off  on  each 
other  would  stampede  stock. 

"  Any  day  but  Thanksgivin'  sech  tales  would 
shore  lead  to  reecriminations  an'  blood  ;  but  as  it 
is,  every  gent  seems  relaxed  an'  onbuckled  that 
a-way  in  honor  of  the  hour,  an*  it  looks  like  lyin* 
is  expected. 

"  How  mendacious  be  them  people  ?     If  I  re- 


278 


Wfville* 


calls  them  scenes  c'rrectly,  it's  Texas  Thompson 
begins  the  campaign  ag'in  trooth. 

"  This  yere  Texas  Thompson  tells,  all  careless- 


,, 


"  THE  RED  DOG  CHIEF." 


like,   how  'way  back  in   the  forties,  when  he's  a 
boy,  he  puts  in  a  Thanksgivin'  in  the  Great  Salt 


A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving.  279 

Lake  valley  with  Old  Jim  Bridger.  This  is  be- 
fore the  Mormons  opens  their  little  game  thar. 

" '  An'  the  snow  falls  to  that  extent,  mebby  it's 
six  foot  deep,'  says  Texas.  *  Bridger  an'  me  makes 
snow-shoes  an'  goes  slidin'  an'  pesterin'  'round  all 
fine  enough.  But  the  pore  animals  in  the  valley 
gets  a  rough  time. 

"  '  It's  a  fact ;  Bridger  an'  me  finds  a  drove  of 
buffalos  bogged  down  in  the  snow, — I  reckons 
now  thar's  twenty  thousand  of  'em, — and  never  a 
buffalo  can  move  a  wheel  or  turn  a  kyard.  Thar 
they  be  planted  in  the  snow,  an'  only  can  jest 
wag  their  y'ears  an'  bat  their  eyes. 

"  *  Well,  to  cut  it  brief,  Bridger  an'  me  goes 
projectin'  'round  an'  cuts  the  throats  of  them 
twenty-thousand  buffalo ;  which  we-alls  is  out  for 
them  robes  a  whole  lot.  Of  course  we.don't  skin 
'em  none  while  they's  stuck  in  the  snow  ;  but 
when  the  snow  melts  in  the  spring,  we  capers  forth 
an'  peels  off  the  hides  like  shuckin'  peas.  They's 
froze  stiff  at  the  time,  for  the  sun  ain't  got  'round 
to  thaw  the  beef  none  yet ;  an'  so  the  meat's  as 
good  as  the  day  we  downs  'em. 

"  '  An'  that  brings  us  to  the  cur'ous  part.  As 
fast  as  we-alls  peels  a  buffalo,  we  rolls  his  carcass 
down  hill  into  Salt  Lake,  an'  what  do  you-alls 
reckons  takes  place  ?  The  water's  that  briny,  it 
pickles  said  buffalo-meat  plumb  through,  an' 
every  year  after,  when  Bridger  an'  me  is  back 
thar, — we're  trappin'  an'  huntin'  them  times, — 


280  Wolfville. 

all  we  has  to  do  is  haul  one  of  them  twenty 
thousand  pickled  buffalos  ashore  an'  eat  him. 

"  *  When  the  Mormons  comes  wanderin'  along, 
bein'  short  on  grub  that  a-way,  they  nacherally 
jumps  in  an'  consooms  up  the  whole  outfit  in 
one  season,  which  is  why  you-alls  don't  find 
pickled  buffalo  in  Salt  Lake  no  more. 

"  '  Bridger  an*  me  starts  in,  when  we  learns 
about  it,  to  fuss  with  them  polygamists  that 
a-way  for  gettin'  away  with  our  salt  buffalos. 
But  they's  too  noomerous  for  us,  an'  we  done 
quits  'em  at  last  an'  lets  it  go.' 

"  Nobody  says  much  when  Texas  Thompson 
is  through.  We  merely  sets  'round  an'  drinks. 
But  I  sees  the  Red  Dog  folks  feels  mortified. 
After  a  minute  they  calls  on  their  leadin*  pre- 
varicator for  a  yarn.  His  name's  Lyin'  Jim 
Riley,  which  the  people  who  baptizes  him 
shorely  tumbles  to  his  talents. 

"This  yere  Lyin'  Jim  fills  a  tin  cup  with  nose- 
paint,  an'  leans  back  listless-like  an'  looks  at 
Enright. 

".'I  never  tells  you-alls/ he  says,  '  about  how 
the  Ratons  gets  afire  mighty  pecooliar,  an'  comes 
near  a-roastin'  of  me  up  some,  do  I  ?  It's  this 
a-way:  I'm  pervadin'  'round  one  afternoon  tryin' 
to  compass  a  wild  turkey,  which  thar's  bands  of 
'em  that  Fall  in  the  Ratons  a-eatin*  of  the  pinyon- 
nuts.  I've  got  a  Sharp's  with  me,  which  the 
same,  as  you-alls  knows,  is  a  single-shot,  but  I 


A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving.  281 

don't  see  no  turks ;  none  whatever.  Now  an' 
then  I  hears  some  little  old  gobbler,  'cross  a 
canyon,  a-makin'  of  sland'rous  remarks  about 
other  gobblers  to  some  hen  he's  deloodin',  but  I 
never  manages  a  shot.  As  I'm  comin'  back  to 
camp — I'm  strollin'  down  a  draw  at  the  time 
where  thar's  no  trees  nor  nothin' — thar  emanates 
a  black-tail  buck  from  over  among  the  bushes  on 
the  hill,  an'  starts  to  headin'  my  way  a  whole 
lot.  His  horns  is  jest  gettin'  over  bein'  velvet, 
an'  he's  feelin'  plenty  good  an'  sassy.  I  sees 
that  buck — his  horns  eetches  is  what  makes  him 
—jump  eighteen  feet  into  the  air  an'  comb  them 
antlers  of  his'n  through  the  hangiiv  pine  limbs. 
Does  it  to  stop  the  eetchin'  an'  rub  the  velvet  off. 
Of  course  I  cuts  down  on  him  with  the  Sharp's. 
It's  a  new  gun  that  a-way,  an'  the  sights  is  too 
coarse — you  drags  a  dog  through  the  hind  sights 
easy — an'  I  holds  high.  The  bullet  goes  plumb 
through  the  base  of  his  horn,  close  into  the  ha'r, 
an'  all  nacheral  fetches  him  sprawlin'.  I  ain't 
waitin'  to  load  my  gun  none,  which  not  waitin* 
to  load,  I'm  yere  to  mention,  is  erroneous.  I'm 
yere  to  say  thar  oughter  be  an  act  of  Congress 
ag'in  not  loadin'  your  gun.  They  oughter  teach 
it  to  the  yearlin's  in  the  schools,  an'  likewise  in 
the  class  on  the  Sabbath.  Allers  load  your  gun. 
Who  is  that  sharp,  Mister  Peets,  who  says,  "  Be 
shore  you're  right,  then  go  ahead"?  He  once 
ranches  some'ers  down  on  the  Glorieta.  But 


282  Wolfville* 

what  he  oughter  say  is :  "  Be  shore  your  gun's 
loaded,  then  go  ahead."  ' 

"  '  That's  whatever ! '  says  Dan  Boggs,  he'pin' 
himse'f  an*  startin'  the  bottle ;  *  an'  if  he  has  a 
lick  of  sense,  that's  what  he  would  say.' 

"  *  Which  I  lays  down  my  empty  gun,'  goes  on 
this  Lyin'  Jim,  '  an'  starts  for  my  buck  to  boo- 
tcher  his  neck  a  lot.  When  I  gets  within  ten 
feet  he  springs  to  his  hoofs  an'  stands  glarin'. 
You  can  gamble,  I  ain't  tamperin'  'round  no 
wounded  buck.  I'd  sooner  go  pesterin'  'round 
a  widow  woman.' 

" '  I  gets  mingled  up  with  a  wounded  buck 
once,'  says  Dave  Tutt,  takin'  a  dab  of  paint,  'an' 
I  nacherally  wrastles  him  down  an'  lops  one  of 
his  front  laigs  over  his  antlers,  an'  thar  I  has 
him ;  no  more  harm  left  in  him  than  a  chamber- 
maid. Mine's  a  white-tailed  deer  over  on  the 
Careese.' 

"'This  yere's  a  black-tail,  which  is  different,' 
says  Lyin'  Jim  ;  '  it's  exactly  them  front  laigs  you 
talks  of  so  lightly  I'm  'fraid  of. 

"  'The  buck  he  stands  thar  sorter  dazed  an* 
battin'  of  his  eyes.  I  ain't  no  time  to  go  back 
for  my  Sharp's,  an'  my  six-shooter  is  left  in  camp. 
Right  near  is  a  high  rock  with  a  steep  face  about 
fifteen  feet  straight  up  an'  down.  I  scrambles 
on  to  this  an'  breathes  ag'in,  'cause  I  knows  no 
deer  is  ever  compiled  yet  who  makes  the  trip. 
The  buck's  come  to  complete  by  now,  an*  when 


A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving.  283 

he  observes  me  on  the  rock,  his  rage  is  as  bound- 
less as  the  glory  of  Texas/ 

"  *  Gents,  we-alls  takes  another  cow-swaller, 
right  yere,'  shouts  Texas  Thompson.  *  It's  a 
rool  with  me  to  drink  every  time  I  hears  the 
sacred  name  of  Texas.' 

"  When  we-alls  conceals  our  forty  drops  in  the 
usual  place,  Lyin'  Jim  proceeds  : 

"  *  When  this  buck  notes  me,  he's  that  frenzied 
he  backs  off  an'  jumps  ag'in  the  face  of  the  rock 
stiff-laiged,  an'  strikes  it  with  them  hoofs  of  his'n. 
Which  he  does  this  noomerous  times,  an'  every 
hoof  cuts  like  a  cold-chisel.  It  makes  the  sparks 
go  spittin'  an'  flyin'  like  it's  a  blacksmith-shop. 

"  (  I'm  takin'  it  ca'm  enough,  only  I'm  won- 
derin'  how  I'm  goin'  to  fetch  loose,  when  I 
notices  them  sparks  from  his  hoofs  sets  the  pine 
twigs  an'  needles  a-blazin'  down  by  the  base  of 
the  rock. 

"  *  That's  what  comes  to  my  relief.  In  two 
minutes  this  yere  spreads  to  a  general  conflagra- 
tion, and  the  last  I  sees  of  my  deer  he's  flyin' 
over  the  Divide  into  the  next  canyon  with  his  tail 
a-blazin'  an'  him  utterin'  shrieks.  I  has  only  time 
to  make  camp,  saddle  up,  an'  line  out  of  thar,  to 
keep  from  bein'  burned  before  my  time. 

" '  This  yere  fire  rages  for  two  months,  an' 
burns  up  a  billion  dollars  worth  of  mountains. 
I'm  a  coyote  if  some  folks  don't  talk  of  lawin' 
me  about  it.' 


284  Wolfville. 

"  *  That's  a  yarn  which  has  the  y'ear-marks  of 
trooth,  but  all  the  same  it's  deer  as  saves  my  life 
once,'  says  Doc  Peets,  sorter  trailin'  in  innocent- 
like  when  this  Lyin'  Jim  gets  through  ;  '  leastwise 
their  meat  saves  it.  I'm  out  huntin'  same  as 
you  is,  this  time  to  which  I  alloods. 

"  '  I'm  camped  on  upper  Red  River  ;  up  where 
the  river  is  only  about  twelve  feet  wide.  It  ain't 
deep  none,  only  a  few  inches,  but  it's  dug  its 
banks  down  about  four  feet.  The  river  runs 
along  the  center  of  a  mile-wide  valley,  which  they 
ain't  no  trees  in  it,  but  all  cl'ar  an'  open. 

**  *  It's  snowin'  powerful  hard  one  evenin'  about 
3  o'clock  when  I  comes  back  along  the  ridge  to- 
wards my  camp  onder  the  pines.  While  I'm 
ridin'  along  I  crosses  the  trail  of  nineteen  deer. 
I  takes  it  too  quick,  'cause  I  needs  deer  in  my 
business,  an'  I  knows  these  is  close  or  their  tracks 
would  be  covered,  the  way  it  snows. 

"  '  I  runs  the  trail  out  into  the  open,  headin'  for 
the  other  ridge.  The  snow  is  plenty  deep  out 
from  onder  the  pines,  but  I  keeps  on.  Final,  jest 
in  the  mouth  of  a  canyon,  over  the  other  side 
where  the  pines  begins  ag'in,  up  jumps  a  black- 
tail  from  behind  a  yaller-pine  log,  and  I  drops 
him. 

"  '  My  pony's  plumb  broke  down  by  now,  so  I 
makes  up  my  mind  to  camp.  It's  a  'way  good 
site.  Thar's  water  comin'  down  the  canyon ; 
thar's  a  big,  flat  floor  of  rocks — big  as  the  dance- 


A  Wolfville  Thanksgiving*  285 

hall  floor — an'  all  protected  by  a  high  rock-faced 
bluff,  so  no  snow  don't  get  thar  none  ;  an'  out  in 
front,  some  twelve  feet,  is  a  big  pitch-pine  log. 
Which  I  couldn't  a-fixed  things  better  if  I  works 
a  year. 

"  *  I  sets  fire  to  the  log,  cuts  up  my  deer,  an' 
sorter  camps  over  between  the  log  an'  bluff,  an' 
takes  things  as  ba'my  as  summer.  I  has  my  sad- 
dle-blanket an'  a  slicker,  an'  that's  all  I  needs. 

"  *  Thar  ain't  no  grass  none  for  the  little  hoss, 
but  I  peels  him  about  a  bushel  of  quakin'-ash 
bark,  an'  he's  doin'  well  'nough.  Lord !  how  it 
snows  outside  !  When  I  peers  out  in  the  mornin' 
it  scares  me.  I  saddles  up,  'cause  my  proper 
camp  is  in  the  pines  t'other  side  of  this  yereopen 
stretch,  an'  I've  got  to  make  it. 

"  *  My  pony  is  weak,  an'  can  only  push  through 
the  snow,  which  is  five  feet  deep.  I'm  walkin' 
along  all  comfortable,  a-holdin'  of  his  tail,  when 
"swish  "  he  goes  plumb  outen  sight.  I  peers  into 
the  orifice  which  ketches  him,  an'  finds  he's  done 
slumped  off  that  four-foot  bank  into  Red  River, 
ker-slop  !  Which  he's  at  once  swept  from  view  ; 
the  river  runnin*  in  onder  the  snow  like  a  tunnel. 

" '  That  settles  it  ;  I  goes  pirootin'  back.  I 
lives  in  that  canyon  two  months.  It  snows  a 
heap  after  I  gets  back,  an'  makes  things  deeper'n 
ever.  I  has  my  deer  to  eat,  not  loadin'  my  pony 
with  it  when  I  starts,  an'  I  peels  some  sugar-pines, 
like  I  sees  Injuns,  an'  scrapes  off  the  white  skin 


286  Wolfville. 

next  the  trees,  an*  makes  a  pasty  kind  of  bread 
of  it,  an'  I'm  all  right. 

"  '  One  mornin',  jest  before  I  gets  out  of  meat, 
I  sees  trouble  out  in  the  snow.  Them  eighteen 
deer — thar's  nineteen,  but  I  c'llects  one,  as  I  says 
— comes  sa'nterin'  down  my  canyon  while  I'm 
asleep,  an'  goes  out  an'  gets  stuck  in  the  snow.  I 
allows  mebby  they  dresses  about  sixty  pounds 
each,  an'  wallers  after  'em  with  my  knife  an'  kills 
six. 

"  *  This  yere  gives  me  meat  for  seventy-two 
days — five  pounds  a  day,  which  with  the  pine 
bark  is  shore  enough.  The  other  twelve  I  turns 
'round  an'  he'ps  out  into  the  canyon  ag'in,  an'  do 
you  know,  them  deer's  that  grateful  they  won't 
leave  none?  It's  a  fact,  they  simply  hangs 
'round  all  the  time  I'm  snowed  in. 

"  *  In  two  months  the  snow  melts  down,  an*  I 
says  adios  to  my  twelve  deer  an'  starts  for  camp. 
Which  you-alls  mebby  imagines  my  s'prise  when 
I  beholds  my  pony  a-grazin'  out  in  the  open,  sad- 
dle on  an'  right.  Yere's  how  it  is  :  He's  been 
paradin'  up  an'  down  the  bed  of  Red  River  onder 
that  snow  tunnel  for  two  months.  Oh !  he  feeds 
easy  enough.  Jest  bites  the  yerbage  along  the 
banks.  This  snow  tunnel  is  four  feet  high,  an' 
he's  got  plenty  of  room. 

" '  I'm  some  glad  to  meet  up  with  my  pony 
that  a-way,  you  bet  !  an*  ketches  him  up  an*  rides 
over  to  my  camp.  An'  I'm  followed  by  my 


A  Wblfville  Thanksgiving*  287 

twelve  deer,  which  comes  cavortin'  along  all 
genial  an*  cordial  an*  never  leaves  me.  No,  my 
hoss  is  sound,  only  his  feet  is  a  little  water-soaked 
an'  tender ;  an*  his  eyes,  bein'  so  long  in  that  half- 
dark  place  onder  the  snow,  is  some  weak  an' 
sore.' 

"As  no  one  seems  desirous  to  lie  no  more 
after  Doc  Peets  gets  through,  we-alls  eats  an' 
drinks  all  we  can,  an'  then  goes  over  to  the 
dance-hall  an'  whoops  her  up  in  honor  of  Red 
Dog.  Nothin'  could  go  smoother. 

"When  it  comes  time  to  quit,  we  has  a  little 
trouble  gettin'  sep'rate  from  'em,  but  not  much. 
We-alls  starts  out  to  'scort  'em  to  Red  Dog  as  a 
gyard  of  honor,  an'  then  they,  bustin'  with  p'lite- 
ness,  'scorts  us  back  to  Wolfville.  Then  we-alls, 
not  to  be  raised  out,  sees  'em  to  Red  Dog  ag'in, 
an*  not  to  have  the  odd  hoss  onto  'em  in  the 
matter,  back  they  comes  with  us. 

"  I  don't  know  how  often  we  makes  this  yere 
round  trip  from  one  camp  to  t'other,  cause  my 
mem'ry  is  some  dark  on  the  later  events  of  that 
Thanksgivin'.  My  pony  gets  tired  of  it  about 
the  third  time  back,  an'  humps  himse'f  an'  bucks 
me  off  a  whole  lot,  whereupon  I  don't  go  with 
them  Red  Dog  folks  no  further,  but  nacherally 
camps  down  back  of  the  mesquite  I  lights  into, 
an,  sleeps  till  mornin'.  You  bet !  it's  a  great 
Thanksgivin'.' 


CHAPTER  XXL 
Bill  Hoskins's  Coon* 

"  NOW  I  thoroughly  saveys,"  remarked  the 
Old  Cattleman  reflectively,  at  a  crisis  in  our  con- 
versation when  the  talk  turned  on  men  of  small 
and  cowardly  measure,  "  I  thoroughly  saveys  that 
taste  for  battle  that  lurks  in  the  deefiles  of  folk's 
nacher  like  a  wolf  in  the  hills.  Which  I  reckons 
now  that  I,  myse'f,  is  one  of  the  peacefullest 
people  as  ever  belts  on  a  weepon  ;  but  in  my  in- 
stincts— while  I  never  jestifies  or  follows  his  ex- 
ample— I  cl'arly  apprehends  the  emotions  of  a 
gent  who  convenes  with  another  gent  all  sim'lar, 
an'  expresses  his  views  with  his  gun.  Sech  is 
human  nacher  onrestrained,  an'  the  same,  while 
deplorable,  is  not  s'prisin'. 

"  But  this  yere  Olson  I  has  in  my  memVy 
don't  have  no  sech  manly  feelin's  as, goes  with  a 
gun  play.  Olson  is  that  cowardly  he's  even  fur- 
tive ;  an'  for  a  low-flung  measly  game  let  me  tell 
you-all  what  Olson  does.  It's  shorely  ornery. 

"  It  all  arises  years  ago,  back  in  Tennessee,  an' 
gets  its  first  start  out  of  a  hawg  which  is  owned 
by  Olson  an'  is  downed  by  a  gent  named  Hos- 
kins — Bill  Hoskins.  It's  this  a-way. 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon.  289 

"  Back  in  Tennessee  in  my  dream-wreathed 
yooth,  when  livestock  goes  projectin'  about  per- 
miscus,  a  party  has  to  build  his  fences  '  bull 
strong,  hawg  tight,  an'  hoss  high,'  or  he  takes  re- 
sults. Which  Hoskins  don't  make  his  fences  to 
conform  to  this  yere  rool  none  ;  leastwise  they 
ain't  hawg  tight  as  is  shown  by  one  of  Olson's 
hawgs. 

"  The  hawg  comes  pirootin'  about  Hoskins's 
fence,  an'  he  goes  through  easy ;  an'  the  way 
that  invadin'  animal  turns  Bill's  potatoes  bottom 
up  don't  hinder  him  a  bit.  He  shorely  loots 
Bill's  lot ;  that's  whatever. 

"  But  Bill,  perceivin'  of  Olson's  hawg  layin' 
waste  his  crop,  reaches  down  a  8-squar'  rifle,  30 
to  the  pound,  an'  stretches  the  hawg.  Which 
this  is  where  Bill  falls  into  error.  Layin'  aside 
them  deeficiencies  in  Bill's  fence,  it's  cl'ar  at  a 
glance  a  hawg  can't  be  held  responsible.  Hawgs 
is  ignorant  an'  tharfore  innocent ;  an*  while  hawgs 
can  be  what  Doc  Peets  calls  a  '  casus  belli]  they 
can't  be  regarded  as  a  foe  legitimate. 

"  Now  what  Bill  oughter  done,  if  he  feels  like 
this  yere  hawg's  done  put  it  all  over  him,  is 
to  go  an'  lay  for  Olson.  Sech  action  by  Bill 
would  have  been  some  excessive, — some  high  so 
to  speak ;  but  it  would  have  been  a  line  shot. 
Whereas  killin'  the  hawg  is  'way  to  one  side  of 
the  mark  ;  an'  onder. 

"  However,    as  I  states,  Bill  bein*  hasty  that 


290  Wolfville* 

a-way,  an'  oncapable  of  perhaps  refined  reasoning 
downs  the  pig,  an'  stands  pat,  waitin'  for  Olson 
to  fill  his  hand,  if  he  feels  so  moved. 

"  It's  at  this  pinch  where  the  cowardly  nacher 
of  this  yere  Olson  begins  to  shine.  He's  ugly 
as  a  wolf  about  Bill  copperin'  his  hawg  that  a-way, 
but  he  don't  pack  the  nerve  to  go  after  Bill 
an'  make  a  round-up  of  them  grievances.  An' 
he  ain't  allowin'  to  pass  it  up  none  onrevenged 
neither.  Now  yere's  what  Olson  does  ;  he  'sas- 
sinates  Bill's  pet  raccoon. 

"  That's  right,  son,  jest  massacres  a  pore,  con- 
fidin'  raccoon,  who  don't  no  more  stand  in  on 
that  hawg-killin'  of  Bill's,  than  me  an'  you, — 
don't  even  advise  it. 

"  Which  I  shorely  allows  you  saveys  all  thar 
is  to  know  about  a  raccoon.  No  ?  Well,  a 
raccoon's  like  this:  In  the  first  place  he's  plumb 
easy,  an'  ain't  lookin'  for  no  gent  to  hold  out 
kyards  or  ring  a  cold  deck  on  him.  That's 
straight ;  a  raccoon  is  simple-minded  that  a-way  ; 
an'  his  impressive  trait  is,  he's  meditative.  Be- 
sides bein'  nacherally  thoughtful,  a  raccoon  is  a 
heap  melancholy, — he  jest  sets  thar  an*  absorbs 
melancholy  from  merely  bein'  alive. 

"  But  if  a  raccoon  is  melancholy  or  gets 
wropped  in  thought  that  a-way,  it's  after  all  his 
own  play.  It's  to  his  credit  that  once  when  he's 
tamed,  he's  got  mountainous  confidence  in  men, 
an*  will  curl  up  to  sleep  where  you  be  an*  shet 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon*  291 

both  eyes.  He's  plumb  trustful  ;  an'  moreover, 
no  matter  how  mournful  a  raccoon  feels,  or  how 
plumb  melancholy  he  gets,  he  don't  pester  you 
with  no  yarns. 

"  I  reckons  I  converses  with  this  yere  identical 
raccoon  of  Bill's  plenty  frequent  ;  when  he  feels 
blue,  an'  ag'in  when  he's  at  his  gailiest,  an'  he 
never  remarks  nothin'  to  me  except  p'lite  gener- 
al'ties. 

"  If  this  yere  Olson  was  a  dead  game  party 
who  regards  himse'f  wronged,  he'd  searched  out 
a  gun,  or  a  knife,  or  mebby  a  club,  an'  pranced 
over  an'  rectified  Bill  a  whole  lot.  But  he's 
too  timid  an'  too  cowardly,  an'  afraid  of  Bill.  So 
to  play  even,  he  lines  out  to  bushwhack  this 
he'pless,  oninstructed  raccoon.  Olson  figgers  to 
take  advantage  of  what's  cl'arly  a  loop-hole  in  a 
raccoon's  constitootion. 

"  Mebby  you  never  notices  it  about  a  raccoon, 
but  once  he  gets  interested  in  a  pursoot,  he's 
rigged  so  he  can't  quit  none  ontil  the  project's  a 
success.  Thar's  herds  an'  bands  of  folks  an' 
animals  who's  fixed  sim'lar.  They  can  start,  an' 
they  can't  let  up.  Thar's  bull-dogs  :  They  begins 
a  war  too  easy ;  but  the  c'pacity  to  quit  is  left 
out  of  bull-dogs  entire.  Same  about  nose-paint 
with  gents  I  knows.  They  capers  up  to  whiskey 
at  the  beginnin'  like  a  kitten  to  warm  milk ;  an* 
they  never  does  cease  no  more.  An'  that's  how 
the  kyards  falls  to  raccoons. 


292  Wolfville, 

"  Knowin'  these  yere  deefects  in  raccoons,  this 
Olson  plots  to  take  advantage  tharof ;  an'  by 
playin'  it  low  on  Bill's  raccoon,  get  even  with 
Bill  about  that  dead  hawg.  Which  Bill  wouldn't 
have  took  a  drove  of  hawgs  ;  no  indeed  !  not  the 
whole  Fall  round-up  of  hawgs  in  all  of  West  Ten- 
nessee, an'  lose  that  raccoon. 

"  It's  when  Bill's  over  to  Pine  Knot  layin'  in 
tobacker,  an'  nose-paint  an'  corn  meal,  an'  sech 
necessaries,  when  Olson  stands  in  to  down  Bill's 
pet.  He  goes  injunnin*  over  to  Bill's  an'  finds 
the  camp  all  deserted,  except  the  raccoon's  thar, 
settin',  battin'  his  eyes  mournful  an*  lonesome 
on  the  doorstep.  This  Olson  camps  down  by 
the  door  an'  fondles  the  raccoon,  an'  strokes  his 
coat,  an'  lets  him  search  his  pockets  with  his 
black  hands  ontil  he  gets  that  friendly  an*  con- 
fident about  Olson  he'd  told  him  anythin'.  It's 
then  this  yere  miscreant,  Olson,  springs  his  game. 

"  He's  got  a  couple  of  crawfish  which  he's  fresh 
caught  at  the  Branch.  Now  raccoons  regards 
crawfish  as  onusual  good  eatin'.  For  myse'f,  I 
can't  say  I  deems  none  high  of  crawfish  as  viands, 
but  raccoons  is  different ;  an*  the  way  they  looks 
at  it,  crawfish  is  pie. 

"  This  Olson  brings  out  his  two  crawfish  an' 
fetchin'  a  jar  of  water  from  the  spring,  he  drops 
in  a  crawfish  an'  incites  an'  aggravates  Zekiel — 
that's  the  name  of  Bill's  raccoon — to  feel  in  an* 
get  him  a  whole  lot. 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon*  293 

"  Zekiel  ain't  none  shy  on  the  play.  He  knows 
crawfish  like  a  gambler  does  a  red  chip  ;  so  turn- 
in'  his  eyes  up  to  the  sky,  like  a  raccoon  does 
who's  wropped  in  pleasant  anticipations  that 
a-way,  he  plunges  in  his  paw  an'  gets  it. 

"  Once  Zekiel  acquires  him,  the  pore  crawfish 
don't  last  as  long  as  two-bits  at  faro-bank.  When 
Zekiel  has  him  plumb  devoured  he  turns  his 
eyes  on  Olson,  sorter  thankful,  an'  'waits  devel- 
opments. 

"  Olson  puts  in  the  second  crawfish,  an*  Zekiel 
takes  him  into  camp  same  as  t'other.  It's  now 
that  Olson  onfurls  his  plot  on  Zekiel.  Olson 
drops  a  dozen  buckshot  into  the  jar  of  water. 
Nacherally,  Zekiel,  who's  got  his  mind  all  framed 
up  touchin'  crawfish,  goes  after  the  buckshot 
with  his  fore  foot.  But  it's  different  with  buck- 
shot;  Zekiel  can't  pick  'em  up.  He  tries  an' 
tries  with  his  honest,  simple  face  turned  up  to 
heaven,  but  he  can't  make  it.  All  Zekiel  can  do 
is  feel  'em  with  his  foot,  an'  roll  'em  about  on 
the  bottom  of  the  jar. 

"  Now  as  I  remarks  prior,  when  a  raccoon  gets 
embarked  that  a-way,  he  can't  quit.  He  ain't 
arranged  so  he  can  cease.  Olson,  who's  plumb 
aware  tharof,  no  sooner  gets  Zekiel  started  on 
them  buckshot,  than  knowin'  that  nacher  can  be 
relied  on  to  play  her  hand  out,  he  sa'nters  off  to 
his  wickeyup,  leavin'  Zekiel  to  his  fate.  Bill 
won't  be  home  till  Monday,  an'  Olson  knows 


294  Wolfville. 

that  before  then,  onless  Zekiel  is  interrupted, 
he'll  be  even  for  that  hawg  Bill  drops.  As  Olson 
comes  to  a  place  in  the  trail  where  he's  goin'  to 
lose  sight  of  Bill's  camp,  he  turns  an'  looks  back. 
The  picture  is  all  his  revenge  can  ask.  Thar  sets 
Zekiel  on  the  doorstep,  with  his  happy  counte- 
nance turned  up  to  the  dome  above,  an'  his  right 
paw  elbow  deep  in  the  jar,  still  rollin'  an'  feelin' 
them  buckshot  'round,  an'  allowin'  he's  due  to 
ketch  a  crawfish  every  moment. 

"  Which  it  works  out  exactly  as  the  wretched 
Olson  figgers.  The  sun  goes  down,  an'  the  Sun- 
day sun  comes  up  an'  sets  ag  in  ;  an  still  pore 
Zekiel  is  planted  by  the  jar,  with  his  hopeful 
eyes  on  high,  still  feelin'  of  them  buckshot.  He 
can't  quit  no  more'n  if  he's  loser  in  a  poker 
game  ;  Zekiel  can't.  When  Bill  rides  up  to  his 
door  about  second-drink  time  Monday  afternoon, 
Olson  is  shorely  even  on  that  hawg.  Thar  lays 
Zekiel,  dead.  He's  jest  set  thar  with  them  buck- 
shot an'  felt  himse'f  to  death. 

"  But  speakin'  of  the  sapiency  of  Bill  Hoskins's 
Zekiel,"  continued  the  old  gentleman  as  we 
lighted  pipes  and  lapsed  into  desultory  puffing, 
"  while  Zekiel  for  a  raccoon  is  some  deep,  after 
all  you-all  is  jest  amazed  at  Zekiel  'cause  I  calls 
your  attention  to  him  a  whole  lot.  If  you  was 
to  go  into  camp  with  'em,  an*  set  down  an'  watch 
'em,  you'd  shorely  be  s'prised  to  note  how  level- 
headed all  animals  be. 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon*  295 

"Now  if  thar's  anythin'  in  Arizona  for  whose 
jedgement  I  don't  have  respect  nacheral,  it's 
birds.  Arizona  for  sech  folks  as  you  an'  me,  an' 
coyotes  an'  jack-rabbits,  is  a  good  range.  Sech  as 
we-alls  sorter  fits  into  the  general  play  an'  gets 
action  for  our  stacks.  But  whatever  a  bird  can 
find  entrancin'  in  some  of  them  Southwestern 
deserts  is  allers  too  many  for  me. 

"  As  I  su'gests,  I  former  holds  fowls,  who  of 
free  choice  continues  a  residence  in  Arizona,  as 
imbeciles.  Yet  now  an'  then  I  observes  things 
that  makes  me  oncertain  if  I'm  onto  a  bird's  sys- 
tem ;  an'  if  after  all  Arizona  is  sech  a  dead  kyard 
for  birds.  It's  possible  a  gent  might  be  'way  off 
on  birds  an'  the  views  they  holds  of  life.  He 
might  watch  the  play  an'  esteem  'em  loser,  when 
from  a  bird's  p'int  of  view  they's  makin'  a  killin', 
an'  even  callin'  the  turn  every  deal. 

"  What  he'ps  to  open  my  eyes  a  lot  on  birds  is 
two  Road  Runners  Doc  Peets  an'  me  meets  up 
with  one  afternoon  comin' down  from  Lordsburg. 
These  yere  Road  Runners  is  a  lanky  kind  of 
prop'sition,  jest  a  shade  off  from  spring  chickens 
for  size.  Which  their  arrangements  as  to  neck 
an'  laigs  is  onrestricted  an'  liberal,  an*  their  long 
suit  is  runnin'  up  an'  down  the  sun-baked  trails 
of  Arizona  with  no  object.  Where  he's  partic'lar 
strong,  this  yere  Road  Runner,  is  in  waitin*  ontil 
some  gent  comes  along,  same  as  Doc  Peets  an' 
me  that  time,  an'  then  attachin'  of  himse'f  to 


296  Wfville. 

said  cavalcade  an'  racin'  along  ahead.  A  Road 
Runner  keeps  up  this  exercise  for  miles,  an'  be 
about  the  length  of  a  lariat  ahead  of  your  pony's 
nose  all  the  time.  When  you-all  lets  out  a  link 
or  two  an'  stiffens  your  pony  with  the  spur,  the 
Road  Runner  onbuckles  sim'lar  an'  exults  tharat. 
You  ain't  goin'  to  run  up  on  him  while  he  can 
wave  a  laig,  you  can  gamble  your  last  chip,  an' 
you  confers  favors  on  him  by  sendin'  your  pony 
at  him.  Thar  he  stays,  rackin'  along  ahead  of 
you  ontil  satiated.  Usual  thar's  two  Road  Run- 
ners, an'  they  clips  it  along  side  by  side  as  if 
thar's  somethin'  in  it  for  'em  ;  an*  I  reckons, 
rightly  saveyed,  thar  is.  However,  the  profits  to 
Road  Runners  of  them  excursions  ain't  obvious, 
none  whatever ;  so  I  won't  try  to  set  'em  forth. 
Them  journeys  they  makes  up  an'  down  the 
trail  shorely  seems  aimless  to  me. 

"  But  about  Doc  Peets  an'  me  pullin'  out  from 
Lordsburg  for  Wolfville  that  evenin' :  Our 
ponies  is  puttin'  the  landscape  behind  'em  at  a 
good  road-gait  when  we  notes  a  brace  of  them 
Road  Runners  with  wings  half  lifted,  pacin'  to 
match  our  speed  along  the  trail  in  front.  As 
Road  Runners  is  frequent  with  us,  our  minds 
don't  bother  with  'em  none.  Now  an'  then  Doc 
an'  me  can  see  they  converses  as  they  goes 
speedin*  along  a  level  or  down  a  slope.  It's  as 
if  one  says  to  t'other,  somethin'  like  this  yere : 

"  *  How's  your  wind,  Bill  ?     Is  it  comin'  easy  ?  * 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon.  297 

" '  Shore/  it  would  seem  like  Bill  answers. 
4  Valves  never  is  in  sech  shape.  I'm  on  velvet ; 
how's  your  laigs  standin'  the  pace,  Jim  ?  ' 

"'  Laigs  is  workin'  like  they's  new  oiled/  Jim 
replies  back  ;  '  it's  a  plumb  easy  game.  I  reckons, 
Bill,  me  an'  you  could  keep  ahead  of  them 
mavericks  a  year  if  we-alls  feels  like  it.' 

"  '  Bet  a  blue  stack  on  it/  Bill  answers.  '  I 
deems  these  yere  gents  soft.  Before  I'd  ride 
sech  ponies  as  them,  I'd  go  projectin'  'round 
some  night  an'  steal  one.' 

"  *  Them  ponies  is  shorely  a  heap  slothful/ 
Jim  answers. 

"  At  this  mebby  them  Road  Runners  ruffles 
their  feathers  an'  runs  on  swifter,  jest  to  show 
what  a  slow  racket  keepin'  ahead  of  me  an'  Peets 
is.  An*  these  yere  locoed  birds  keeps  up  sech 
conversations  for  hours. 

"  Mind  I  ain't  sayin'  that  what  I  tells  you  is 
what  them  Road  Runners  really  remarks;  but  I 
turns  it  over  to  you-all  the  way  it  strikes  me  an' 
Doc  at  the  time.  What  I  aims  to  relate,  how- 
ever, is  an  incident  as  sheds  light  on  how  wise 
an'  foxy  Road  Runners  be. 

"  Doc  Peets  an'  me,  as  I  states,  ain't  lavishin' 
no  onreasonable  notice  on  these  yere  birds,  an* 
they've  been  scatterin'  along  the  trail  for  mebby 
it's  an  hour,  when  one  of  'em  comes  to  a  plumb 
halt,  sharp.  The  other  stops  likewise  an'  rounds 
.up  ag'inst  his  mate ;  an'  bein'  cur'ous  to  note 


298  Wolfville. 

what's  pesterin'  'em,  Peets  an'  me  curbs  to  a 
stand-still.  The  Road  Runner  who  stops  first — 
the  same  bein'  Bill — is  lookin'  sharp  an'  inter- 
ested-like  over  across  the  plains. 

44  *  Rattlesnake,'  he  imparts  to  his  side  partner. 

44  *  Where's  he  at  ?  says  the  side  partner,  which 
is  Jim,  4  where's  this  yere  snake  at,  Bill?  I  don't 
note  no  rattlesnake.' 

44  'Come  round  yere  by  me,'  Bill  says.  *  Now 
on  a  line  with  the  top  of  yonder  mesa  an  a  leetle 
to  the  left  of  that  soap-weed  ;  don't  you-all  see 
him  quiled  up  thar  asleep?  ' 

44 '  Which  I  shorely  does,'  says  Jim,  locatin'  the 
rattlesnake  with  his  beady  eye,  '  an'  he's  some 
sunk  in  slumber.  Bill,  that  serpent  is  our  meat.' 

4<  *  Move  your  moccasins  easy/  says  Bill,  *  so's 
not  to  turn  him  out.  Let's  rustle  up  some  flat 
cactuses  an'  corral  him.' 

44  Tharupon  these  yere  Road  Runners  turns  in 
mighty  diligent ;  an'  not  makin'  no  more  noise 
than  shadows,  they  goes  pokin'  out  on  the  plains 
ontil  they  finds  a  flat  cactus  which  is  dead  ;  so 
they  can  tear  off  the  leaves  with  their  bills. 
Doc  Peets  an'  me  sets  in  our  saddles  surveyin' 
their  play  ;  an'  the  way  them  Road  Runners  goes 
about  the  labors  of  their  snake  killin'  impresses 
us  it  ain't  the  first  bootchery  of  the  kind  they  ap- 
pears in.  They  shorely  don't  need  no  sooper- 
visin'. 

44  One  after  the  other,  Jim  an'  Bill  teeters  up, 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon.  299 

all  silent,  with  a  flat  cactus  leaf  in  their  beaks,  an' 
starts  to  fence  in  the  rattlesnake  with  'em.  They 
builds  a  corral  of  cactus  all  about  him,  which  the 
same  is  mebby  six-foot  across.  Them  engin- 
eering feats  takes  Jim  an'  Bill  twenty  minutes. 
But  they  completes  'em  ;  an'  thar's  the  rattle- 
snake, plumb  surrounded. 

"  These  yere  cactuses,  as  you  most  likely 
saveys,  is  thorny  no  limit ;  an'  the  spikes  is  that 
sharp,  needles  is  futile  to  'em.  Jim  an'  Bill  knows 
the  rattlesnake  can't  cross  this  thorny  corral. 

"  He  don't  look  it  none,  but  from  the  way  he 
plays  his  hand,  I  takes  it  a  rattlesnake  is  sensi- 
tive an'  easy  hurt  onder  the  chin. 

"  An'  it's  plain  to  me  an'  Peets  them  Road 
Runners  is  aware  of  said  weaknesses  of  rattle- 
snakes, an'  is  bankin'  their  play  tharon.  We-alls 
riggers,  lookin'  on,  that  Jim  an'  Bill  aims  to  put 
the  rattlesnake  in  prison  ;  leave  him  captive  that 
a-way  in  a  cactus  calaboose.  But  we  don't  size 
up  Jim  an'  Bill  accurate  at  all.  Them  two  fowls 
is  shorely  profound. 

"  No  sooner  is  the  corral  made,  than  Jim  an' 
Bill,  without  a  word  of  warnin',  opens  up  a  war- 
jig  'round  the  outside  ;  flappin'  their  pinions  an' 
screechin'  like  squaws.  Nacherally  the  rattle- 
snake wakes  up.  The  sight  of  them  two  Road 
Runners,  Jim  an'  Bill,  cussin'  an'  swearin'  at  him, 
an'  carryin'  on  that  a-way  scares  him. 

"  It's  trooth  to  say  Bill  an'  Jim  certainly  con- 


300  WolfvUle. 

ducts  themse'fs  scand'lous.  The  epithets  they 
heaps  on  that  pore  ignorant  rattlesnake,  the 
taunts  they  flings  at  him,  would  have  done 
Apaches  proud. 

The  rattlesnake  buzzes  an'  quils  up,  an'  on- 
sheaths  his  fangs,  an'  makes  bluffs  to  strike  Bill 
an'  Jim,  but  they  only  hops  an'  dances  about, 
thinkin'  up  more  ornery  things  to  say.  Every 
time  the  rattlesnake  goes  to  crawl  away — which 
he  does  frequent — he  strikes  the  cactus  thorns 
an'  pulls  back.  By  an'  by  he  sees  he's  elected, 
an'  he  gets  that  enraged  he  swells  up  till  he's  big 
as  two  snakes  ;  Bill  an'  Jim  maintainin'  their  sass. 
Them  Road  Runners  is  abreast  of  the  play  every 
minute,  you  can  see  that. 

"At  last  comes  the  finish,  an'  matters  gets 
dealt  down  to  the  turn.  The  rattlesnake  sud- 
denly crooks  his  neck,  he's  so  plumb  locoed  with 
rage  an'  fear,  an'  socks  his  fangs  into  himse'f. 
That's  the  fact ;  bites  himse'f,  an'  never  lets  up 
till  he's  dead. 

"It  don't  seem  to  astound  Jim  an'  Bill  none 
when  the  rattlesnake  'sassinates  himse'f  that 
a-way,  an'  I  reckons  they  has  this  yere  sooicide 
in  view.  They  keeps  pesterin'  an'  projectin' 
about  ontil  the  rattlesnake  is  plumb  defunct,  an' 
then  they  emits  a  whirlwind  of  new  whoops,  an' 
goes  over  to  one  side  an'  pulls  off  a  skelp  dance. 
Jim  an'  Bill  is  shorely  cel'bratin'  a  vic'try. 

"After  the  skelp  dance  is  over,  Bill  an'  Jim 


Bill  Hoskins's  Coon.  301 

tiptoes  over  mighty  quiet  an'  sedate,  an'  Jim 
takes  their  prey  by  the  tail  an'  yanks  it.  After 
the  rattlesnake's  drug  out  straight,  him  an'  Bill 
runs  their  eyes  along  him  like  they's  sizin'  him 
up.  With  this  yere  last,  however,  it's  cl'ar  the 
Road  Runners  regards  the  deal  as  closed. 
They  sa'nters  off  down  the  trail,  arm  in  arm  like, 
conversin*  in  low  tones  so  Peets  an'  me  never 
does  hear  what  they  says.  When  they's  in  what 
they  takes  to  be  the  c'rrect  p'sition,  they  stops 
an'  looks  back  at  me  an*  Peets.  Bill  turns  to 
Jim  like  he's  say  in' : 

"  '  Thar's  them  two  short-horns  ag'in.  I  won- 
ders if  they  ever  aims  to  pull  their  freight,  or  do 
they  reckon  they'll  pitch  camp  right  yere  ?  ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXIL 
Old  Sam  Enright's  "  Romanced 

"  IT  mebby  is,  that  romances  comes  to  pass  on 
the  range  when  I'm  thar,"  remarked  the  Old  Cat- 
tleman, meditatively,  "but  if  so  be,  I  never  notes 
'em.  They  shorely  gets  plumb  by  me  in  the 
night." 

The  old  gentleman  had  just  thrown  down  a 
daily  paper,  and  even  as  he  spoke  I  read  on  the 
upturned  page  the  glaring  headline :  "  Romance 
in  Real  Life."  His  recent  literature  was  the  evi- 
dent cause  of  his  reflections. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  Old  Cattleman, 
turning  for  comfort  to  his  inevitable  tobacco  pipe, 
"  of  course,  at  sech  epocks  as  some  degraded 
sharp  takes  to  dealin'  double  in  a  poker  game,  or 
the  kyards  begins  to  come  two  at  a  clatter  at 
faro-bank,  the  proceedin's  frequent  takes  on  what 
you-all  might  call  a  hue  of  romance  ;  an'  I  admits 
they  was  likely  to  get  some  hectic,  myse'f.  But 
as  I  states,  for  what  you-all  would  brand  as  clean- 
strain  romance,  I  ain't  recallin'  none." 

"  How  about  those  love  affairs  of  your  youth  ?  " 
I  ventured. 


Old  Sam  Enright's  "  Romanced  3°3 

4<  Which  I  don't  deny,"  replied  the  old  gentle- 
man, between  puffs,  "  that  back  in  Tennessee, 
as  I  onfolds  before,  I  has  my  flower-scented 
days.  But  I  don't  wed  nothin',  as  you-all 
knows,  an'  even  while  I'm  ridin'  an'  ropin'  at 
them  young  female  persons,  thar's  never  no  ro- 
mance to  it,  onless  it's  in  the  fact  that  they  all 
escapes. 

"  But  speakin'  of  love-tangles,  Old  Man  Enright 
once  recounts  a  story;  which  the  same  shows 
how  female  fancy  is  rootless  an'  onstable  that 
a-way. 

"'  Allers  copper  a  female/  says  Cherokee  Hall, 
one  day,  when  Texas  Thompson  is  relatin'  how 
his  wife  maltreats  him,  an'  rounds  up  a  divorce 
from  him  down  at  Laredo.  '  Allers  play  'em  to 
lose.  Nell,  yere,'  goes  on  Cherokee,  as  he  runs 
his  hand  over  the  curls  of  Faro  Nell,  who's  look- 
out for  Cherokee,  *  Nelly,  yere,  is  the  only  one  I 
ever  meets  who  can  be  depended  on  to  come  win- 
ner every  trip.' 

"  *  Which  females,'  says  Old  Man  Enright,  who's 
settin'  thar  at  the  time,  *  an'  partic'lar,  young 
females,  is  a  heap  frivolous,  nacheral.  A  rain- 
bow will  stampede  most  of  'em.  For  myse'f,  I'd 
shorely  prefer  to  try  an'  hold  a  bunch  of  five 
hundred  ponies  on  a  bad  night,  than  ride  herd  on 
the  heart  of  one  lady.  Between  gent  an*  gent 
that  a-way,  I  more'n  half  figger  the  'ffections  of  a 
female  is  migratory,  same  as  buffaloes  was  before 


304  Wolfville. 

they  was  killed,  an'  sorter  goes  north  like  in  the 
spring,  an'  south  ag'in  in  the  winter.' 

" '  As  for  me,'  says  Texas  Thompson,  who's 
moody  touchin'  them  divorce  plays  his  wife  is 
makin',  *  you-alls  can  gamble  I  passes  all  females 
up.  No  matter  how  strong  I  holds,  it  looks  like 
on  the  showdowns  they  outlucks  me  every  time. 
Wherefore  I  quits  'em  cold,  an'  any  gent  who 
wants  my  chance  with  females  can  shorely  have 
the  same.' 

"  *  Oh,  I  don't  know  ! '  remarks  Doc  Peets,  get- 
tin*  in  on  what's  a  general  play,  4  I've  been  all 
through  the  herd,  an'  I  must  say  I  deems  women 
good  people  every  time ;  a  heap  finer  folks  than 
men,  an'  faithfuller.' 

"'Which  I  don't  deny  females  is  fine  folks,' 
says  Texas,  '  but  what  I'm  allowin'  is,  they's  fit- 
ful. They  don't  stay  none.  You-alls  can  hobble 
an*  sideline  'em  both  at  night ;  an'  when  you  rolls 
out  in  the  mornin',  they's  gone.' 

"'What  do  you-all  think,  Nell?'  says  Doc 
Peets  to  Faro  Nell,  who's  perched  up  on  her 
stool  by  Cherokee's  shoulder.  *  What  do  you-all 
reckon  now  of  Texas  yere,  a-malignin'  of  your 
sex  ?  Why  don't  you  p'int  him  to  Dave  Tutt 
an*  Tucson  Jennie?  Which  they  gets  married, 
an'  thar  they  be,  gettin'  along  as  peaceful  as  two 
six-shooters  on  the  same  belt.' 

"'I  don't  mind  what  Texas  says,  none,'  replies 
Faro  Nell.  '  Texas  is  all  right,  an'  on  the  squar'. 


Old  Sam  Enrighfs  "Romance*"  305 

I  shouldn't  wonder  none  if  this  yere  Missis 
Thompson  does  saw  it  off  on  him  some  shabby, 
gettin'  that  sep'ration,  an'  I  don't  marvel  at  his 
remarks.  But  as  long  as  Cherokee  yere  thinks 
I'm  right,  I  don't  let  nobody's  views  pester  me  a 
little  bit,  so  than' 

"  4  It's  what  I  says  awhile  back,'  interrupts 
Enright.  '  Texas  Thompson's  wife's  motives 
mighty  likely  ain't  invidious  none.  It's  a  heap 
probable  if  the  trooth  is  known,  that  she  ain't 
aimin'  nothin'  speshul  at  Texas ;  she  only 
changes  her  mind.  About  the  earliest  event  I 
remembers,'  goes  on  Enright,  '  is  concernin'  a 
woman  who  changes  her  mind.  It's  years  ago 
when  I'm  a  yearlin'.  Our  company  is  makin'  a 
round-up  at  a  camp  called  Warwhoop  Crossin', 
in  Tennessee,  organizin'  to  embark  in  the  Mexi- 
can war  a  whole  lot,  an*  thin  out  the  Greasers. 
No  one  ever  does  know  why  I,  personal,  declar's 
myse'f  in  on  this  yere  imbroglio.  I  ain't  bigger'n 
a  charge  of  powder,  an'  that  limited  as  to  laigs  I 
has  to  clamber  onto  a  log  to  mount  my  pony. 

"  '  But  as  I'm  tellin',  we-alls  comes  together  at 
Warwhoop  to  make  the  start.  I  reckons  now 
thar's  five  hundred  people  thar.  Which  the  oc- 
casion, an'  the  interest  the  public  takes  in  the 
business,  jest  combs  the  region  of  folks  for  miles 
about. 

"  *  Thar's  a  heap  of  hand-shakin'  an'  well-wishin' 
goin'  on  ;  mothers  an'  sisters,  an'  sweethearts  is 


306  Wolfville* 

kissin'  us  good-bye ;  an'  while  thar's  some  hilar- 
ity thar's  more  sobs.  It's  not,  as  I  looks  back'ard, 
what  you-alls  would  call  a  gay  affair. 

"  *  While  all  this  yere  love  an'  tears  is  flowin', 
thar's  a  gent — he's  our  Captain — who's  settin'  off 
alone  in  his  saddle,  an'  ain't  takin'  no  hand. 
Thar's  no  sweetheart,  no  mother,  no  sister  for 
him. 

" '  No  one  about  Warwhoop  knows  this  yere 
party  much ;  more'n  his  name  is  Bent.  He's 
captain  with  the  Gov'nor's  commission,  an' 
comes  from  'way-off  yonder  some'ers.  An'  so  he 
sets  thar,  grim  an'  solid  in  his  saddle,  lookin' 
vague-like  off  at  where  the  trees  meets  the  sky, 
while  the  rest  of  us  is  goin'  about  permiscus, 
finishin'  up  our  kissin'. 

" '  "  Ain't  he  got  no  sweetheart  to  wish  good- 
bye to  him  ?  "  asks  a  girl  of  me.  "  Ain't  thar  no 
one  to  kiss  him  for  good  luck  as  he  rides  away  ?  " 

"  'This  yere  maiden's  name  is  Sanders,  an'  it's 
a  shore  fact  she's  the  prettiest  young  female  to 
ever  make  a  moccasin  track  in  West  Tennessee. 
I'd  a-killed  my  pony  an'  gone  afoot  to  bring 
sech  a  look  into  her  eyes,  as  shines  thar  when  she 
gazes  at  the  Captain  where  he's  silent  an'  sol'tary 
on  his  hoss. 

"  *  "  No,"  I  replies,  "he's  a  orphan,  I  reckons. 
He's  plumb  abandoned  that  a-way,  an'  so  thar's 
nobody  yere  to  kiss  him,  or  shake  his  hand." 

" 4  This    yere     pretty  Sanders     girl — an'    I'm 


Old  Sam  Enright's  "Romance*"  307 

pausin'  ag'in  to  state  she's  a  human  sunflower, 
that  a-way — this  Sanders  beauty,  I'm  sayin', 
looks  at  this  party  by  himse'f  for  a  moment,  an* 
then  the  big  tears  begins  to  well  in  her  blue  eyes. 
She  blushes  like  a  sunset,  an'  walks  over  to  this 
yere  lone  gent. 

"  (  "  Mister  Captain,"  she  says,  raisin'  her  face 
to  him  like  a  rose,  "  I'm  shore  sorry  you  ain't  got 
no  sweetheart  to  say  *  good-bye  ; '  an'  bein' 
you're  lonesome,  that  a-way,  I'll  kiss  you  an'  say 
adios  myse'f." 

"  '"  Will  you,  my  little  lady?"  says  the  lone- 
some Captain,  as  he  swings  from  his  saddle  to 
the  ground  by  her  side ;  an'  thar's  sunshine  in 
his  eyes. 

"  '  "  I'll  think  of  you  every  day  for  that,"  he 
says,  when  he  kisses  her,  "  an*  if  I  gets  back 
when  the  war's  done,  I'll  shorely  look  for  you 
yere." 

"  '  The  little  Sanders  girl — she  is  shorely  as 
handsome  as  a  ace  full  on  kings — blushes  a  heap 
vivid  at  what  she's  done,  an'  looks  warm  an' 
tender.  Which,  while  the  play  is  some  onusual 
an'  out  of  line,  everybody  agrees  it's  all  right ; 
bein'  that  we-alls  is  goin'  to  a  war,  that  a-way. 

"  '  Now  yere/  goes  on  Enright,  at  the  same 
time  callin'  for  red-eye  all  'round,  *  is  what  you- 
alls  agrees  is  a  mighty  romantic  deal.  Yere's  a 
love  affair  gets  launched.' 

" '  Does    this   yere   lone-hand    gent    who    gets 


308  Wolfville. 

kissed  by  the  Sanders  lady  outlive  the  war  ?  ' 
asks  Texas  Thompson,  who  has  braced  up  an' 
gets  mighty  vivacious  listenin'  to  the  story. 

" '  Which  he  shorely  outlives  that  conflict/  re- 
plies Enright.  *  An*  you  can  gamble  he's  in  the 
thick  of  the  stampede,  too,  every  time.  I  will 
say  for  this  yere  Captain,  that  while  I  ain't  with 
him  plumb  through,  he's  as  game  a  sport  as  ever 
fought  up  hill.  He's  the  sort  which  fights  an 
goes  for'ard  to  his  man  at  the  same  time.  Thar's 
no  white  feathers  on  that  kind ;  they's  game  as 
badgers.  An'  bad.' 

"  '  Which  if  he  don't  get  downed  none,'  says 
Texas  Thompson,  '  an'  hits  Tennessee  alive,  I 
offers  ten  to  one  he  leads  this  yere  Sanders  fe- 
male to  the  altar.' 

"  '  Which  you'd  lose,  a  whole  lot,'  says  Enright, 
at  the  same  time  raisin'  his  whiskey  glass. 
1  That's  what  I  states  when  I  trails  out  on  this  yere 
romance.  Females  is  frivolous  an*  plumb  light  of 
fancy.  This  Captain  party  comes  back  to  War- 
whoop,  say,  it's  two  years  an'  a  half  later,  an'  what 
do  you-alls  reckon  ?  That  Sanders  girl's  been 
married  mighty  nigh  two  years,  an'  has  an  infant 
child  as  big  as  a  b'ar  cub,  which  is  beginnin'  to 
make  a  bluff  at  walkin.' 

"  *  Now,  on  the  squar',  an'  I'm  as  s'prised  about 
it  as  you  be — I'm  more'n  s'prised,  I'm  pained — I 
don't  allow,  lookin'  over  results  an'  recallin'  the 
fact  of  that  b'ar-cub  infant  child,  that  for  all  her 


Old  Sam  Enright's  "Romance."  309 

blushin',  an'  all  her  tears,  an'  kissin'  that  Captain 
party  good-by  that  a-way,  that  the  Sanders  girl 
cares  a  hoss-h'ar  rope  for  him  in  a  week.  An'  it 
all  proves  what  I  remarks,  that  while  females 
ain't  malev'lent  malicious,  an'  don't  do  these 
yere  things  to  pierce  a  gent  with  grief,  their 
'flections  is  always  honin'  for  the  trail,  an'  is 
shorely  prone  to  move  camp.  But,  bless  'em  ! 
they  can't  he'p  it  none  if  their  hearts  be  quick- 
sands, an'  I  libates  to  'em  ag'in.' 

"  Whereat  we-alls  drinks  with  Enright  ;  feelin' 
a  heap  sim'lar. 

"  '  Whatever  becomes  of  this  yere  pore  Cap- 
tain party?  '  asks  Faro  Nell. 

" '  Well,  the  fact  about  that  Captain,'  replies 
Enright,  settin'  down  his  glass,  'while  the  same 
is  mere  incident,  an'  don't  have  no  direct 
bearin'  on  what  I  relates ;  the  fact  in  his  case  is 
he's  wedded  already.  Nacherally  after  say  in' 
"  howdy  !  "  to  the  little  Sanders  girl,  an'  applaud- 
in*  of  her  progeny — which  it  looks  like  he  fully 
endorses  that  a-way — this  yere  Captain  gent  hits 
the  trail  for  Nashville,  where  his  wife's  been 
keepin'  camp  an'  waitin'  for  him  all  the  time.'  " 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 
Pinon  Bill's  Bluff* 

"  THIS  narrative  is  what  you-all  might  call  some 
widespread,"  said  the  Old  Cattleman,  as  he 
beamed  upon  me,  evidently  in  the  best  of 
humors.  "  It  tells  how  Pifion  Bill  gets  a  hoss  on 
Jack  Moore ;  leaves  the  camp  bogged  up  to  the 
saddle-girths  in  doubt  about  who  downs  Burke  ; 
an'  stakes  the  Deef  Woman  so  she  pulls  her 
freight  for  the  States. 

"  Pifion  Bill  is  reckoned  a  hard  game.  He's 
only  in  Wolfville  now  an'  then,  an'  ain't  cuttin' 
no  figger  in  public  calc'lations  more'n  it's  re- 
garded as  sagacious  to  pack  your  gun  while  Pifion 
Bill's  about. 

"No;  he  don't  down  no  white  men  no  one 
ever  hears  of,  but  thar's  stories  about  how  he 
smuggles  freight  an'  plunder  various  from 
Mexico,  an'  drives  off  Mexican  cattle,  an'  once 
in  awhile  stretches  a  Mexican  himse'f  who  objects 
to  them  enterprises  of  Pifion  Bill's ;  but  thar's 
nothin'  in  sech  tales  to  interest  Americans,  more'n 
to  hear  'em  an?  comment  on  'em  as  plays. 

"  But  while  Pifion  Bill   never  turns  his  talents 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluff.  311 

to  Americans,  them  liberties  he  takes  with 
Greasers  gives  him  a  heap  of  bad  repoote,  as  a 
mighty  ornery  an'  oneasy  person ;  an'  most  of 
us  sorter  keeps  tab  on  him  whenever  he  favors 
Wolfville  with  his  presence. 

"  This  time  he  collides  with  Jack  Moore,  an'  so 
to  speak,  leaves  the  drinks  on  Jack,  he's  been 
trackin'  'round  camp  mebby  it's  six  weeks. 

"  Likewise  thar's  an  old  longhorn  they  calls  the 
'  Major  ' ;  he's  been  hangin'  about  for  even  longer 
yet.  Don't  go  to  figgerin'  on  no  hostilities  be- 
tween this  Pifton  Bill  an'  the  Major,  for  their1 
trails  never  does  cross  once.  Another  thing 
Piilon  Bill  ain't  nacherally  hostile  neither ;  ain't 
what  you-all  calls  trailin'  trouble ;  whereas  the 
Major's  also  a  heap  too  drunk  to  give  way  to 
war,  bein'  tanked  that  a-way  continuous. 

"  Which  I  don't  reckon  thar's  the  slightest 
doubt  but  the  Major's  a  bigger  sot  than  Old 
Monte,  though  the  same  is  in  dispoote  ;  Cherokee 
Hall  an'  Boggs  a-holdin'  he  is  ;  an'  Doc  Peets  an' 
Tutt  playin'  the  other  end ;  Enright  an'  Jack 
Moore,  ondecided. 

"  Peets  confides  in  me  of  an'  concernin'  the 
Major  that  thar's  a  time — an'  no  further  up  the 
trail  than  five  years — when  the  Major  is  shore- 
'nough  a  Major ;  bein'  quartermaster  or  some 
sech  bluff  in  the  army. 

"  But  one  day  Uncle  Sam  comes  along  an' 
wants  to  cash  in  ;  an'  thar  this  yere  crazy-hoss 


3i2  Wolfville* 

Major  is  with  ten  times  as  many  chips  out  as  he's 
got  bank-roll  to  meet,  an'  it  all  fatigues  the 
gov'ment  to  that  extent  the  Major's  cashiered, 
an'  told  to  vamos  the  army  for  good. 

"  I  allers  allows  it's  whiskey  an'  kyards  gets 
the  Major's  roll  that  time.  Peets  says  he  sees 
him  'way  back  once  over  some'ers  near  the 
Mohave  Desert — Wingate,  mebby — an'  whiskey 
an'  poker  has  the  Major  roped  ;  one  by  the  horns, 
the  other  by  the  hoofs ;  an'  they  jest  throws  him 
an' drug  him,  an'  drug  him  an'  throws  him,  alter- 
nate. The  Major  never  shakes  loose  from  the 
loops  of  them  vices  ;  none  whatever. 

"  An'  that's  mighty  likely,  jest  as  I  says,  how 
the  Major  finds  himse'f  cashiered  an'  afoot ;  an' 
nothin'  but  disgrace  to  get  rid  of  an'  whiskey  to 
get,  to  fill  the  future  with. 

"  So  it  comes  when  I  trails  up  on  the  Major 
he's  a  drunkard  complete,  hangin'  'round  with  a 
tin-horn  an'  a  handful  of  dice,  tryin'  to  get  Mexi- 
cans or  Chinamen  to  go  ag'in  'em  for  any  small 
thing  they  names. 

"  It's  on  account  of  this  yere  drunkard  the 
Major  that  the  Deef  Woman  comes  stagin'  it  in 
with  Old  Monte  one  day.  Got  a  papoose  with 
her,  the  Deef  Woman  has,  a  boy  comin'  three,  an' 
it's  my  firm  belief,  which  this  view  is  common  an' 
frequent  with  all  Wolfville,  as  how  the  Deef 
Woman's  the  Major's  wife. 

"  It  ain't  no  cinch  play  that  this  female's  deef, 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluf f.  3 '3 

neither;  which  it's  allers  plain  she  hears  the 
most  feeblesome  yelp  of  that  infant,  all  the  way 
from  the  dance-hall  to  the  O.  K.  House,  an'  that 
means  across  the  camp  complete. 

"  Boggs  puts  it  up  she  merely  gives  it  out  she's 
deef  that  a-way  to  cut  off  debate  with  the  camp, 
an'  decline  all  confidences  goin'  an'  comin'. 

"  Thar's  no  reason  to  say  the  Deef  Woman's 
the  Major's  wife,  more'n  she  tumbles  into  camp 
as  onlooked  for  as  Old  Monte  sober,  an'  it's  easy 
to  note  she  s'prises  an'  dismays  the  Major  a  lot, 
even  drunk  an'  soaked  with  nose  paint  as  he 
shorely  is. 

"  The  Deef  Woman  has  a  brief  pow-wow  with 
him  alone  over  at  the  O.  K.  House,  followin*  of 
which  the  Major  appears  the  whitiest  an'  the 
shakiest  I  ever  beholds  him — the  last  bein'  some 
strong  as  a  statement — an'  after  beggin'  a  drink 
at  the  Red  Light,  p'ints  out  afoot  for  Red  Dog, 
an'  is  seen  no  more. 

"What  the  Deef  Woman  says  to  the  Major, 
or  him  to  her ;  or  what  makes  him  hit  the  trail 
for  Red  Dog  that  a-way  no  one  learns.  The 
Deef  Woman  ain't  seemin'  to  regard  the  Major's 
jumpin'  the  outfit  as  no  loss,  however.  Wherein 
she's  plenty  accurate,  for  that  Major  shorely  ain't 
worth  ropin'  to  brand. 

"After  he's  gone — an'  the  Major's  moccasin 
track  ain't  never  seen  in  Wolfville  no  more,  he's 
gone  that  good — the  next  we-alls  hears  of  the 


3  H  Wolfville. 

deal,  this  yere  Deef  Woman's  playin'  the  piano 
at  the  dance-hall. 

"  Doc  Peets  an'  Enright,  likewise  the  rest, 
don't  like  this  none  whatever,  for  she  don't  show 
dance-hall  y'ear  marks,  an'  ain't  the  dance-hall 
brand  ;  but  it  looks  like  they's  powerless  to  inter- 
fere. 

"  Peets  tries  to  talk  to  her,  but  she  blushes 
an'  can't  hear  him ;  while  Enright  an'  Missis 
Rucker — which  the  last  bein'  a  female  herse'f  is 
rung  in  on  the  play — don't  win  out  nothin'  more. 
Looks  like  all  the  Deef  Woman  wants  is  to  be 
let  alone,  while  she  makes  a  play  the  best  she 
can  for  a  home-stake. 

"  I  pauses  to  mention,  however,  that  durin' 
the  week  the  Deef  Woman  turns  her  game  at  the 
piano — for  she  don't  stay  only  a  week  as  the 
play  runs  out — she  comes  mighty  near  killin'  the 
dance-hall  business.  The  fact  is  this  yere  Deef 
Woman  plays  that  remarkable  sweet  no  one 
dances  at  all ;  jest  nacherally  sets  'round  hungerin' 
for  them  melodies,  an'  cadences  to  that  extent 
they  actooally  overlooks  drinks. 

"  That's  right ;  an'  you  can  gamble  your 
deepest  chip  when  folks  begins  to  overlook 
drinks,  an'  a  glass  of  whiskey  lasts  energetic 
people  half  an  hour,  they's  shorely  some  rapt. 

"  Even  the  coyotes  cashes  in  an'  quits  their 
howls  whenever  the  Deef  Woman  drug  her  chair 
up  to  that  piano  an'  throws  loose.  An'  them 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluff.  315 

coyotes  afterward,  when  she  turns  up  her  box  an' 
stops  dealin',  gets  that  bashful  an'  taciturn  they 
ain't  sayin'  a  word  ;  but  jest  withholds  all  yells 
entire  the  rest  of  the  night. 

*'  But  thar's  no  use  talkin'  hours  about  the 
Deef  Woman's  music.  It  only  lasts  a  week; 
even  if  Wolfville  does  brag  of  it  yet. 

"It's  this  a-way:  It's  while  Piflon  Bill  is  ro- 
mancin'  round  the  time  I  mentions,  that  we-alls 
rolls  outen  our  blankets  one  mornin'  an'  picks  up 
a  party  whose  name's  Burke.  This  yere  Burke 
is  shot  in  the  back  ;  plumb  dead,  an'  is  camped 
when  we  finds  him  all  cold  an'  stiff  out  back  of 
the  New  York  store. 

"  The  day  before,  Burke,  who's  a  miner,  diggin' 
an'  projectin'  'round  over  in  the  Floridas,  is  in 
camp  layin'  in  powder  an'  fuse  a  whole  lot,  with 
which  he  means  to  keep  on  shootin'  up  the  he'p- 
less  bosoms  of  the  hills  like  them  locoed  miner 
people  does. 

"  At  night  he's  drunk;  an' while  thar's  gents 
as  sees  Burke  as  late,  mebby  it's  two  hours  after 
the  last  walse  at  the  dance-hall,  thar's  nobody 
who  ups  an*  imparts  how  Burke  gets  plugged. 
All  Wolfville  knows  is  that  at  first-drink  time  in 
the  mornin',  thar  this  Burke  is  plumb  petered  that 
a-way. 

"  An'  the  worst  feature  shorely  is  that  the 
bullet  goes  in  his  back,  which  makes  it  murder 
plain.  Thar  ain't  a  moccasin  track  to  he'p  tell  who 


3i6  Wolfville. 

drops  this  yere  Burke.  Nacherally,  everybody's 
deeply  taken  to  know  who  does  it ;  for  if  thar's 
a  party  in  camp  who's  out  to  shoot  when  your 
back's  turned,  findin'  of  him  an'  hangin'  him 
can't  be  too  pop'lar  an'  needful  as  a  play.  But, 
as  I  remarks,  we're  baffled,  an'  up  ag'inst  it  abso- 
loote.  No  one  has  the  least  notion  who  gets 
this  yere  Burke.  It's  money  as  is  the  object  of 
the  murder,  for  Burke's  war-bags  don't  disclose 
not  a  single  centouse  when  the  committee  goes 
through  'em  prior  to  the  obsequies. 

"  It's  two  days  the  camp  is  talkin'  over  who 
does  this  crime,  when  Texas  Thompson  begins  to 
shed  a  beam  of  light.  This  last  was  onlooked 
for,  an'  tharfore  all  the  more  interestin'. 

"  Texas  Thompson  is  a  jedge  of  whiskey  sech 
as  any  gent  might  tie  to.  He's  a  middlin'  shot 
with  a  Colt's  .44  an'  can  protect  himse'f  at  poker. 
But  nobody  ever  reckons  before  that  Texas  can 
think.  Which  I  even  yet  deems  this  partic'lar 
time  a  inspiration,  in  which  event  Texas  Thomp- 
son don't  have  to  think. 

"  It's  over  in  the  Red  Light  the  second  after- 
noon when  Texas  turns  loose  a  whole  lot. 

"  *  Enright,'  he  says,  '  I  shore  has  a  preemoni- 
tion  this  yere  Burke  gets  plugged  by  Piiion  Bill.' 

"  '  How  does  the  kyards  run  so  as  to  deal 
s'picions  on  Pifton  Bill  ?  '  says  Enright. 

"'This  a-way,'  says  Texas,  some  confident  an' 
cl'ar ;  'somebody  downs  Burke;  that's  dead  cer- 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluff.  317 

tain.  Burke  don't  put  that  hole  in  the  middle  of 
his  back  himse'f  ;  no  matter  how  much  he  reckons 
it  improves  him.  Then,  when  it's  some  one  else  : 
who  is  it  ?  Now/  goes  on  Texas,  as  glib  as 
wolves,  '  yere's  how  I  argues :  You-all  don't  do 
it ;  Peets  don't  do  it ;  Boggs  don't  do  it ;  thar's 
not  one  of  us  who  does  it.  An'  thar  you  be 
plumb  down  to  Pinon  Bill.  In  the  very  nacher 
of  the  deal,  when  no  one  else  does  it  an'  it's  done, 
Pinon  Bill's  got  to  do  it.  I  tells  you  as  shore 
as  my  former  wife  at  Laredo's  writin'  insultin' 
letters  to  me  right  now,  this  yere  Pinon  Bill's 
the  party  who  shoots  up  that  miner  gent  Burke.' 

"  What  Texas  Thompson  says  makes  an.  im- 
pression ;  which  it's  about  the  first  thoughtful 
remark  he  ever  makes,  an'  tharfore  we're  prone 
to  give  it  more'n  usual  attention. 

"We  imbibes  on  it  an'  talks  it  up  an'  down, 
mebby  it's  half  an  hour  ;  an'  the  more  we  drinks 
an'  the  harder  we  thinks,  the  cl'arer  it  keeps 
gettin'  that  mighty  likely  this  yere  Texas  has 
struck  the  trail.  At  last  Jack  Moore,  who's,  as  I 
often  says,  prompt  an'  vig'lant  that  a-way,  lines 
out  to  hunt  this  yere  Pifton  Bill. 

"  Whyever  do  they  call  him  Pifton  Bill  ?  Noth- 
in'  much ;  only  once  he  comes  into  camp  drunk 
an'  locoed  ;  an'  bein'  in  the  dark  an'  him  hawg- 
hungry,  he  b'iles  a  kettle  of  pifion-nuts,  a-holdin' 
of  'em  erroneous  to  be  beans,  an'  as  sech  aimin' 
to  get  some  food  outen  'em  a  whole  lot.  He 


Wolfville. 

goes  to  sleep  while  he's  pesterin*  with  'em,  an' 
when  the  others  tumbles  to  his  game  in  the 
mornin',  he's  branded  as  *  Pifton  Bill '  ever  more. 

"When  Jack  hops  out  to  round-up  Piflon 
Bill,  all  he  does  is  go  into  the  street.  The  first 
thing  he  notes  is  this  yere  Piflon  Bill's  pony 
standin'  saddled  over  by  the  O.  K.  House,  like 
he  plans  to  pull  his  freight. 

" '  Which  that  bronco  standin'  thar,'  says  Jack 
to  Enright,  '  makes  it  look  like  Texas  -calls 
the  turn  with  them  surmises.'  An'  it  shorely 
does. 

"  This  pony  makes  Jack's  play  plenty  simple  ; 
all  he  does  now  is  to  sa'nter  'round  the  pony 
casooal  like  an'  lay  for  Piflon  Bill. 

"  Jack's  too  well  brought  up  to  go  surgin'  into 
rooms  lookin'  for  Piflon  Bill,  where  Jack's  eyes 
comin'  in  outen  the  sun  that  a-way,  can't  see  for  a 
minute  nohow,  an'  where  Piflon  Bill  has  advan- 
tages. It's  better  to  wait  for  him  outside. 

"  You-all  saveys  how  it's  done  in  the  West. 
When  a  gent's  needed  you  allers  opens  the  game 
with  a  gun-play. 

"'  Hold  up  your  hands!  '  says  you,  sorter  in- 
dicatin'  a  whole  lot  at  your  prey  with  a  gun. 

"  Which,  by  the  way,  if  he  don't  enter  into 
the  sperit  of  the  thing  prompt  an'  p'int  his  paws 
heavenward  an*  no  delay,  you-all  mustn't  fall 
into  no  abstractions  an'  forget  to  shoot  some. 
When  you  observes  to  a  fellow-bein'  that  a-way : 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluff.  319 

'Hold  up  your  hands!'  you  must  be  partic'lar 
an'  see  he  does  it.  Which  if  you  grows  lax  on 
this  p'int  he's  mighty  likely  to  put  your  light 
out  right  thar. 

"  An'  jest  as  Jack  Moore  tells  me  once  when 
we're  puttin'  in  some  leesure  hours  an'  whiskey 
mingled,  you  don't  want  to  go  too  close  to  stand- 
up  your  gent.  Over  in  the  Gunnison  country, 
Jack  says,  a  marshal  he  knows  gets  inadvertent 
that  a-way,  an'  thoughtless,  an'  goes  up  close. 

"  *  Throw  up  your  hands  !'  says  this  yere  mar- 
shal. 

"His  tone  shows  he's  ennuied ;  he  has  so 
many  of  these  yere  blazers  to  run  ;  that's  why 
he's  careless,  mebby.  When  the  party  throws 
up  his  hands,  he  is  careful  an  knocks  the  mar- 
shal's gun  one  side  with  his  left  hand,  bein'  he's 
too  close  as  I  says,  at  the  same  time  pullin'  his 
own  wherewith  he  then  sends  that  marshal  to  the 
happy  huntin'  grounds  in  one  motion.  Before 
ever  that  Gunnison  offishul  gets  it  outen  his 
head  that  that  sport's  holdin'  up  his  hands,  he's 
receivin'  notice  on  high  to  hustle  'round  an'  find 
his  harp  an'  stand  in  on  the  eternal  chorus  for 
all  he's  worth. 

"  *  Which  the  public,'  says  Jack  Moore,  the 
time  he  relates  about  this  yere  Gunnison  mar- 
shal bein  over-played  that  time,  *  takes  an'  hangs 
the  killer  in  a  minute.  An'  he's  shorely  a  bad 
man. 


320  Wolfville* 

"  *  "  Does  you-all  want  to  pray  ?  "  says  one  of 
the  gents  who's  stringin'  of  him. 

"'"No,  Ed,"  he  says  that  a-way,  "  prayin's  a 
blind  trail  to  my  eyes  an'  I  can't  run  it  a  inch." 

"  *  "  What  for  a  racket,"  says  this  yere  Ed, 
"  would  it  be  to  pick  out  a  sport  to  pray  for  you 
a  whole  lot ;  sorter  play  your  hand?  " 

"  *  "  That's  all  right,"  says  this  culprit.  "  Nomi- 
nate your  sharp  an'  tell  him  to  wade  in  an'  roll 
his  game.  I  reckons  it's  a  good  hedge,  an'  a 
little  prayin'  mebby  does  me  good." 

"  *  Tharupon  the  committee  puts  for'ard  a  gent 
who's  a  good  talker ;  but  not  takin'  an  interest 
much,  he  makes  a  mighty  weak  orison,  that  a-way. 
Thar's  nobody  likes  it,  from  the  culprit,  who's 
standin'  thar  with  the  lariat  'round  his  neck,  to 
the  last  gent  who's  come  up.  This  party  blun- 
ders along,  mebby  it's  a  minute,  when  the  culprit, 
who's  plumb  disgusted,  breaks  in. 

"  '  "  That's  a  hell  of  a  pra'r,"  he  says,  "  an'  I 
don't  want  no  more  of  it  in  mine.  Gimme  a 
drink  of  whiskey,  gents,  an'  swing  me  off." 

"  'The  committee,  whose  sympathies  is  all  with 
this  yere  party  who's  to  hang,  calls  down  the 
gent  a  heap  who's  prayin',  gives  the  other  his 
forty  drops,  an'  cinches  him  up  some  free  of  the 
ground ;  which  the  same  bein'  ample  for  strang- 
'lation. 

" '  But,'  concloods  Jack,  '  while  they  hangs 
him  all  right  an'  proper,  that  don't  put  off  the 


Pinon  Rill's  Bluff.  321 

funeral  of  the  marshal  none,  who  gets  careless 
an'  goes  too  close.'  An'  you  bet  Jack's  right. 

"  But  goin'  back  :  As  I  remarks,  Jack  stands 
round  loose  an'  indifferent  with  his  eye  on  the 
pony  of  Pifion  Bill's,  which  it  looks  now  like  this 
yere  Bill  is  aware  of  Jack's  little  game.  He 
comes  out  shore-'nough,  but  he's  organized. 
He's  got  his  gun  in  his  hand  ;  an'  also  he's  pack- 
in'  the  Deef  Woman's  yearlin'  in  front  of  his 
breast  an'  face. 

"  Jack  gives  him  the  word,  but  Pifion  Bill  only 
laughs.  Then  Jack  makes  a  bluff  with  his  gun 
like  he's  goin'  to  shoot  Pifion  Bill,  the  infant,  an' 
all  involved  tharin.  This  yere  last  move  rattles 
Pifion  Bill,  an'  he  ups  an'  slams  loose  at  Jack. 
But  the  baby's  in  his  way  as  much  mebby  as  it 
is  in  Jack's,  an'  he  only  grazes  Jack's  frame  a 
whole  lot,  which  amounts  to  some  blood  an'  no 
deep  harm. 

"  *  Down  his  pony,  Jack !  '  shouts  Dave  Tutt, 
jumpin'  outen  the  Red  Light  like  he  aims  to  get 
in  on  the  deal. 

"But  this  yere  Pifion  Bill  shifts  the  cut  on 
'em. 

"  '  If  one  of  you-alls  so  much  as  cracks  a  cap/ 
he  says,  *  I  blows  the  head  offen  this  yere  blessed 
child.' 

"An'  tharupon  he  shoves  his  gun  up  agin 
that  baby's  left  y'ear  that  a-way,  so  it  shore 
curdles  your  blood.  He  does  it  as  readily  as  if  it's 


322  Wolfville. 

grown-up  folks.  It  shore  sends  a  chill  through 
me;  an'  Dan  Boggs  is  that  'fected  he  turns 
plumb  sick.  Boggs  ain't  eatin'  a  thing,  leastwise 
nothin'  but  whiskey,  for  two  days  after  he  sees 
Pifion  Bill  do  it. 

"'That's  on  the  level,'  says  this  Pifion  Bill 
ag'in.  "  The  first  vestich  of  a  gun-play  I  wit- 
nesses, or  if  any  gent  starts  to  follow  me  ontil 
I'm  a  mile  away,  I'll  send  this  yearlin'  scoutin' 
after  Burke.  An'  you-alls  hears  me  say  it.' 

"  Thar  it  is ;  a  squar'  case  of  stand-off.  Thar 
ain't  a  gent  who's  game  to  make  a  move.  Seein' 
we  ain't  got  a  kyard  left  to  play,  this  yere  Pifion 
Bill  grins  wide  an'  satisfactory,  an'  swings  into 
the  saddle. 

"All  this  time — which,  after  all,  it  ain't  so 
long — the  baby  ain't  sayin'  nothin',  and  takes 
the  deal  in  plumb  silence.  But  jest  as  Pifion 
Bill  lands  in  the  saddle  it  onfurls  a  yell  like  a 
wronged  panther.  That's  what  brings  the  Deef 
Woman  stampedin*  to  the  scene.  She  don't  hear 
a  morsel  of  all  this  riot  Jack  an'  Tutt  an'  Pifion 
Bill  kicks  up ;  never  even  gets  a  hint  of  Pifion 
Bill's  six-shooter.  But  with  the  earliest  squeak 
of  that  infant  that  a-way,  you  bet  !  she  comes 
a-runnin'. 

"The  second  she  sees  where  her  baby's  at,  up 
in  the  saddle  along  with  Pifion  Bill,  she  makes  a 
spring  for  the  whole  outfit.  We-alls  stands 
lookin'  on.  Thar  ain't  one  of  us  dares  crook  a 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluff.  323 

finger,  for  this  Pifion  Bill  is  cool  an'  ca'm  plumb 
through.  He's  still  got  the  drop  on  the  kid, 
while  he's  holdin'  baby  an'  bridle  both  with  the 
other  arm  an'  hand.  His  sharp  eyes  is  on  the 
Deef  Woman,  too. 

"  She  springs,  but  she  never  makes  it.  Pifton 
Bill  jumps  his  pony  sideways  out  of  her  reach, 
an'  at  that  the  Deef  Woman  c'lapses  on  her  face 
an'  shoulder  in  a  dead  swoon. 

"'  Adios  !  '  says  Pinon  Bill,  to  the  rest  of  us, 
backin'  an'  sidlin'  his  pony  up  the  street  so  he 
don't  lose  sight  of  the  play.  '  Ten  minutes  from 
now  you-alls  finds  this  yere  infant  a  mile  from 
camp  as  safe  an'  solid  as  a  sod  house.' 

"  '  Bill/  says  Enright,  all  at  once,  '  I  makes 
you  a  prop'sition.  Restore  the  baby  to  me,  an' 
thar  ain't  a  gent  in  camp  who -follows  you  a  foot. 
I  gives  you  the  word  of  Wolfville/ 

"  '  Does  that  go  ?  *  demands  Pifion  Bill,  turnin' 
to  Jack,  who's  shakin'  the  blood  offen  his  fingers 
where  it  runs  down  his  arm. 

"  '  It  goes/  says  Jack  ;  '  goes  wherever  Enright 
sets  it.  I  makes  good  his  bluffs  at  all  times  on 
foot  or  in  the  stirrups/ 

"  '  An'  I  takes  your  promise/  says  Pifion  Bill 
with  a  laugh,  '  an'  yere's  the  baby.  Which  now 
I'm  goin',  I  don't  mind  confidin'  in  you-alls/ 
goes  on  this  Pifion  Bill,  '  that  I  never  intends  to 
hurt  that  infant  nohow.' 

"  Enright  gets  the  child,  an*  in   no  time  later 


324  Wolfville. 

that  Pinon  Bill  is  fled  from  sight.  You  can  believe 
it ;  it  takes  a  load  offen  the  public  mind  about  that 
infant  when  the  kyards  comes  that  a-way. 

"  Which  the  story's  soon  told  now.  It's  three 
days  later,  an',  seein'  it's  refreshed  in  our 
thoughts,  Enright  an'  the  rest  of  us  is  resoomed 
op'rations  touchin'  this  Deef  Woman,  about 
gettin'  her  outen  camp,  an'  she's  beginnin'  to  re- 
cover her  obduracy  about  not  sayin*  or  hearin' 
nothin',  when  in  comes  a  package  by  Old  Monte 
an'  the  stage.  It's  for  Enright  from  that  hoss- 
thief,  Pifton  Bill.  Thar's  a  letter  an*  $500  for 
the  baby. 

"  'Tell  that  Deef  Woman/  says  this  yere  Pifton 
Bill,  '  that  I  has  an  even  thousand  dollars  in  my 
war-bags,  when  I  stacks  in  her  offspring  ag'inst 
the  camp  to  win  ;  an'  I  deems  it  only  squar'  to 
divide  the  pot  with  the  baby.  The  kid  an'  me's 
partners  in  the  play  that  a-way,  an'  the  enclosed 
is  the  kid's  share.  Saw  this  yere  dinero  off  on 
her  somehow;  an'  make  her  pull  her  freight. 
Wolfville's  no  good  place  to  raise  that  baby.' 

"'Which  this  Pifton  Bill  ain't  so  bad  neither,' 
says  Dan  Boggs,  when  he  hears  it.  *  Gents,  I 
proposes  the  health  of  this  outlaw.  Barkeep, 
see  what  they  takes  in  behalf  of  Pifton  Bill.' 

"  The  letter  an'  the  money's  dead  straight,  an' 
the  Deef  Woman  can't  dodge  or  go  'round.  All 
of  which  Missis  Rucker  takes  a  day  off  an'  beats 
it  into  her  by  makin'  signs.  It's  like  two  Injuns 


Pinon  Bill's  Bluff.  325 

talkin'.  It  all  winds  up  by  the  Deef  Woman 
p'intin'  out  on  her  way  some'ers  East,  an'  thar 
ain't  one  of  us  ever  sees  the  Major,  the  Deef 
Woman,  the  kid,  nor  yet  this  Pinon  Bill,  no  more. 
Which  this  last,  however,  is  not  regarded  as  food 
for  deep  regrets." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Crawfish  Jim* 

"  DON'T  I  never  tell  you  the  story  of  the  death 
of  Crawfish  Jim  ?  " 

The  Old  Cattleman  bent  upon  me  an  eye  of 
benevolent  inquiry.  I  assured  him  that  the  de- 
tails of  the  taking  off  of  Crawfish  Jim  were  as  a 
sealed  book  to  me.  But  I  would  blithely  listen. 

"  What  was  the  fate  of  Crawfish  Jim  ?  "  I  asked. 
The  name  seemed  a  promise  in  itself. 

"  Nothin'  much  for  a  fate,  Crawfish's  ain't,"  re- 
joined the  Old  Cattleman.  "  Nothin'  whatever 
compared  to  some  fates  I  keeps  tabs  onto.  It 
was  this  a-way :  Crawfish  Jim  was  a  sheep-man, 
an'  has  a  camp  out  in  the  foothills  of  the  Tres 
Hermanas ;  mebby  it's  thirty  miles  back  from 
Wolfville.  This  yere  Crawfish  Jim  was  a  pecoo- 
liar  person  ;  plumb  locoed,  like  all  sheep-men. 
They  has  to  be  crazy  or  they  wouldn't  pester 
'round  in  no  sech  disrepootable  pursoots  as 
sheep. 

"  You-all  has  seen  these  yere  gents  as  makes 
pets  of  snakes.  Mebby  it's  once  in  a  thousand 
times  you  cuts  the  trail  of  sech  a  party.  Snakes 


Crawfish  Jim,  327 

is  kittens  to  him,  an'  he's  likely  to  be  packin' 
specimens  'round  in  his  clothes  any  time. 

"  That's  the  way  with  this  Crawfish  Jim.  I 
minds  talkin'  to  him  at  his  camp  one  day  when 
I'm  huntin'  a  bunch  of  cattle.  The  first  I  notes, 
a  snake  sticks  his  head  outen  Crawfish's  shirt,  an* 
looks  at  me  malev'lent  and  distrustful.  Another 
protroods  its  nose  out  up  by  Crawfish's  collar. 

"  '  Which  you  shore  seems  ha'nted  of  snakes?  ' 
I  says,  steppin'  back  an'  p'intin'  at  the  reptiles. 

" 4  Them's  my  dumb  companions,'  says  Craw- 
fish Jim.  '  They  shares  my  solitood.' 

"  '  You-all  do  seem  some  pop'lar  with  'em,'  I 
observes,  for  I  saveys  at  once  he's  plumb  off  his 
mental  reservation  ;  an'  when  a  party's  locoed 
that  a-way  it  makes  him  hostile  if  you  derides 
his  little  game  or  bucks  his  notions. 

"  I  takes  grub  with  Crawfish  that  same  day ; 
good  chuck,  too ;  mainly  sheep-meat,  salt-hoss, 
an'  bakin'-powder  biscuit.  I  watches  him  some 
narrow  about  them  snakes  he's  infested  with  ;  I 
loathin'  of  'em,  an'  not  wantin'  'em  to  transfer 
no  love  to  me,  nor  take  to  enlivenin'  my  secloo- 
sion  none. 

"  Well,  son,  this  yere  Crawfish  Jim  is  as  a  den 
of  serpents.  I  reckons  now  he  has  a  plumb 
dozen  mowed  away  in  his  raiment.  Thar's  no 
harm  in  'em ;  bein'  all  bull-snakes,  which  is  in- 
nocuous an'  without  p'ison,  fangs,  or  convic- 
tions. 


328 


Wolfville* 


When  Crawfish  goes  to  cook,  he  dumps  these 
folks  outen  his  clothes,  an' 
lets  'em  hustle  an'  play  'round 
while  grub's  gettin'. 

"  *  These   yere   little   ani- 
mals,'   he   says,  '  likes    their 
reecreations  same  as  humans, 
so    I    allers    gives 
'em     a    play-spell 
while    I'm    busy 
round  camp.' 

"  'Don't  they 
ever  stampede  off 
none  ?  '  I  asks. 

'"Shorely  not,' 
says  Crawfish. 
'  Bull-snakes  is  the  most  do- 
mestical  snake  thar  is.  If  I'd 
leave  one  of  these  yere  tender 
creatures  out  over  night  he'd 
die  of  homesickness.' 

"  When  Crawfish  gets  ready 
to   b'ile   the,  coffee,    he 
tumbles  the  biggest  bull- 
^      snake  I'd  seen  yet  outen 
the  coffee-pot  onto  the 
grass.     Then  he  fills  the 
kettle  with  water,  dumps 
in  the  coffee,  an'  sets  her  on  the  coals  to  stew. 
"'This   yere    partic'lar  snake,'  says  Crawfish, 


CRAWFISH  JIM. 


Crawfish  Jim.  329 

'which  I  calls  him  Julius  Caesar,  is  too  big  to 
tote  'round  in  my  shirt,  an'  so  he  lives  in  the 
coffee-pot  while  I'm  away,  an'  keeps  camp  for 
me.' 

"  *  Don't  you  yearn  for  no  rattlesnakes  to  fon- 
dle?' I  inquires,  jest  to  see  what  kyard  he'd 
play. 

" '  No,'  he  says, '  rattlesnakes  is  all  right — good, 
sociable,  moral  snakes  enough ;  but  in  a  sperit  of 
humor  they  may  bite  you  or  some  play  like  that, 
an'  thar  you'd  be.  No  ;  bull-snakes  is  as  'fec- 
tionate  as  rattles,  an'  don't  run  to  p'ison.  You 
don't  have  no  inadvertencies  with  'em.* 

"  '  Can't  you  bust  the  fangs  outen  rattlesnakes  ?  ' 
I  asks. 

"'They  grows  right  in  ag'in,'  says  Crawfish, 
'  same  as  your  finger-nails.  I  ain't  got  no  time 
to  go  scoutin'  a  rattlesnake's  mouth  every  day, 
lookin'  up  teeth,  so  I  don't  worry  with  'em. 
but  plays  bull-snakes  straight.  This  bein'  dentist 
for  rattlesnakes  has  resks,  which  the  same  would 
be  foolish  to  assoom.' 

"  While  grub's  cookin'  an'  Crawfish  an'  me's 
pow-wowin',  a  little  old  dog  Crawfish  has — one 
of  them  no-account  fice-dogs — comes  up  an' 
makes  a  small  uprisin'  off  to  one  side  with  Julius 
Caesar.  The  dog  yelps  an'  snaps,  an'  Julius 
Caesar  blows  an'  strikes  at  him,  same  as  a  rattle- 
snake. However,  they  ain't  doin'  no  harm,  an' 
Crawfish  don't  pay  no  heed. 


330  Wolfville. 

" '  They's  runnin'  blazers  on  each  other,'  says 
Crawfish,  *  an'  don't  mean  nothin'.  Bimeby  Cari- 
bou Pete — which  the  same  is  the  dog — will  go  lie 
down  an'  sleep  ;  an'  Julius  Caesar  will  quile  up 
ag'in  him  to  be  warm.  Caribou,  bein'  a  dog  that 
a-way,  is  a  warm-blood  animal,  while  pore  Julius 
has  got  cold  blood  like  a  fish.  So  he  goes  over 
an'  camps  on  Caribou,  an'  all  the  same  puts  his 
feet  on  him  for  to  be  comfortable.' 

"  Of  course,  I'm  a  heap  interested  in  this  yere 
snake  knowledge,  an'  tells  Crawfish  so.  But  it 
sorter]  coppers  my  appetite,  an'  Crawfish  saves  on 
sheep-meat  an'  sow-belly  by  his  discourse  power- 
ful. Thinkin'  an'  a-lookin'  at  them  blessed  snakes, 
speshul  at  Julius  Caesar,  I  shore  ain't  hungry 
much.  But  as  you  says:  how  about  Crawfish 
Jim  gettin'  killed? 

"  One  day  Crawfish  allows  all  alone  by  himse'f 
he'll  hop  into  Wolfville  an'  buy  some  stuff  for 
his  camp, — flour,  whiskey,  tobacker,  air-tights, 
an'  sech. 

"What's  air-tights?  Which  you  Eastern 
shorthorns  is  shore  ignorant.  Air-tights  is  can 
peaches,  can  tomatters,  an'  sim'lar  bluffs. 

"  As  I  was  sayin',  along  comes  pore  old  Craw- 
fish over  to  Wolfville  ;  rides  in  on  a  burro. 
That's  right,  son  ;  comes  loafin'  along  on  a  burro 
like  a  Mexican.  These  yere  sheep-men  is  that 
abandoned  an'  vulgar  they  ain't  got  pride  to  ride 
a  hoss. 


Crawfish  Jim*  331 

"  Along  comes  Crawfish  on  a  burro,  an'  it's  his 
first  visit  to  Wolfville.  Yeretofore  the  old  Cim- 
maron  goes  over  to  Red  Dog  for  his  plunder,  the 
same  bein'  a  busted  low-down  camp  on  the  Lords- 
burg  trail,  which  once  holds  it's  a  rival  to  Wolf- 
ville. It  ain't,  however;  the  same  not  bein'  of 
the  same  importance,  commercial,  as  a  prairie-dog 
town. 

"  This  time,  however,  Crawfish  p'ints  up  for 
Wolfville.  An'  to  make  himse'f  loved,  I  reckons, 
whatever  does  he  do  but  bring  along  Julius 
Caesar. 

"  I  don't  reckon  now  he  ever  plays  Julius 
Caesar  none  on  Red  Dog.  Mighty  likely  this 
yere  was  the  bull-snake's  first  engagement.  I 
clings  to  this  notion  that  Red  Dog  never  sees 
Julius  Caesar;  for  if  she  had,  them  drunkards 
which  inhabits  said  camp  wouldn't  have  quit 
yellin'  yet.  Which  Julius  Caesar,  with  that  Red 
Dog  whiskey  they  was  soaked  in,  would  have 
shore  given  'em  some  mighty  heenous  visions. 
Fact  is,  Crawfish  told  Jack  Moore  later  he  never 
takes  Julius  Caesar  nowhere  before. 

"  But  all  the  same  Crawfish  prances  into  camp 
on  this  yere  occasion  with  Julius  bushwacked 
'way  'round  back  in  his  shirt,  an'  sech  vacant 
spaces  about  his  person  as  ain't  otherwise  oc- 
cupied a-nourishin'  of  minor  bull-snakes  plenty 
profuse. 

"  Of  course   them    snakes  is   all  holdin'  back, 


332  Wolfville. 

bein',  after  all,  timid  cattle ;  an'  so  none  of  us 
s'spects  Crawfish  is  packin'  any  sech  s'prises. 
None  of  the  boys  about  town  knows  of  Crawfish 
havin'  this  bull-snake  habit  but  me,  nohow.  So 
the  old  man  stampedes  'round  an'  buys  what  he's 
after,  an'  all  goes  well.  Nobody  ain't  even 
dreamin'  of  reptiles. 

"  At  last  Crawfish,  havin'  turned  his  little  game 
for  flour,  air-tights,  an'  jig-juice,  as  I  says,  gets 
into  the  Red  Light,  an'  braces  up  ag'in  the  bar 
an'  calls  for  nose-paint  all  'round.  This  yere  is 
proper  an',  p'lite,  an'  everybody  within  hearin'  of 
the  yell  lines  up. 

"  It's  at  this  crisis  Crawfish  Jim  starts  in  to 
make  himse'f  a  general  fav'rite.  Everybody's 
slopped  out  his  perfoomery,  an'  Dan  Boggs  is 
jest  sayin' :  'Yere's  lookin'  at  you,  Crawfish,' 
when  that  crazy-hoss  shepherd  sorter  swarms 
'round  inside  his  shirt  with  his  hand,  an'  lugs 
out  Julius  Caesar  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck, 
a-squirmin'  an'  a-blowin',  an*  madder'n  a  drunken 
squaw.  Once  he  gets  Julius  out,  he  spreads  him 
'round  profuse  on  the  Red  Light  bar  an'  sorter 
herds  him  with  his  hand  to  keep  him  from  charg- 
in'  off  among  the  bottles. 

"  '  Gents/  says  this  locoed  Crawfish,  *  I  ain't 
no  boaster,  but  I  offers  a  hundred  to  fifty,  an' 
stands  to  make  it  up  to  a  thousand  dollars  in 
wool  or  sheep,  Julius  Caesar  is  the  fattest  an'  finest 
serpent  in  Arizona  ;  also  the  best  behaved.' 


Crawf  ish  Jim.  333 

"  Thar  ain't  no  one  takin'  Crawfish's  bet.  The 
moment  he  slams  Julius  on  the  bar,  more'n  ten 
of  our  leadin'  citizens  falls  to  the  floor  in  fits,  an' 
emerges  outen  one  par'xysm  only  to  slump  into 
another.  Which  we  shorely  has  a  general  round- 
up of  all  sorts  of  spells. 

"  *  Whatever's  the  matter  of  you-all  people  ?  ' 
says  Crawfish,  lookin'  mighty  aghast.  '  Thar's  no 
more  harm  in  Julius  Caesar  than  if  he's  a  full- 
blown rose.' 

"Jack  Moore,  bein'  marshal,  of  course  stands 
his  hand.  It's  his  offishul  dooty  to  play  a  pat 
hand  on  bull-snakes  an'  danger  in  all  an*  any 
forms.  An'  Jack  does  it. 

"  While  Crawfish  is  busy  recountin'  the  at- 
tainments of  Julius  Caesar,  a-holdin'  of  his  pet 
with  one  hand,  Jack  Moore  takes  a  snap  shot  at 
him  along  the  bar  with  his  six-shooter,  an*  away 
goes  Julius  Caesar's  head  like  a  puff  of  smoke. 
Then  Moore  rounds  up  Crawfish,  an',  perceivin' 
of  the  other  bull-snakes,  he  searches  'em  out  one 
by  one  an*  massacres  'em. 

" '  Call  over  Doc  Peets,'  says  Jack  Moore  final, 
'  an'  bring  Boggs  an'  Tutt  an'  the  rest  of  these 
yere  invalids  to.' 

"  Doc  Peets  an'  Enright  both  trails  in  on  the 
lope  from  the  New  York  Store.  They  hears 
Moore's  gun-play  an'  is  cur'ous,  nacheral  'nough, 
to  know  who  calls  it.  Well,  they  turns  in  an' 
brings  the  other  inhabitants  outen  their  fits ; 


334  Wolfvillc* 

pendin'  which  Moore  kills  off  the  last  remainin' 
bull-snake  in  Crawfish's  herd. 

"Son,  I've  seen  people  mad,  an'  I've  seen  'em 
gay,  an'  I've  seen  'em  bit  by  grief.  But  I'm 
yere  to  remark  I  never  runs  up  on  a  gent  who 
goes  plumb  mad  with  sadness  ontil  I  sees  Craw- 
fish that  day  Jack  Moore  immolates  his  bull-snake 
pets.  He  stands  thar,  white,  an'  ain't  sayin'  a 
word.  Looks  for  [a  minute  like  he  can't  move. 
Crawfish  don't  pack  no  gun,  or  I  allers  allowed 
we'd  had  notice  of  him  some,  while  them  bull- 
snakes  is  cashin'  in. 

"  But  at  last  he  sorter  comes  to,  an'  walks  out 
without  sayin'  nothin'.  They  ain't  none  of  us 
regardin'  of  him  much  at  the  time ;  bein'  busy 
drinkin'  an'  recoverin'  from  the  shock. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  s'pose  this  old  Navajo 
does?  Lopes  straight  over  to  the  New  York 
Store — is  ca'm  as  a  June  day  about  it,  too — an' 
gets  a  six-shooter. 

"  The  next  information  we  gets  of  Crawfish, 
*  bang  ! '  goes  his  new  gun,  an'  the  bullet  cuts 
along  over  Jack  Moore's  head  too  high  for  re- 
sults. New  gun  that  a-way,  an'  Crawfish  not  up 
on  his  practice ;  of  course  he  overshoots. 

"  Well,  the  pore  old  murderer  never  does  get 
a  second  crack.  I  reckons  eight  people  he  has 
interested  shoots  all  at  once,  an'  Crawfish  Jim 
quits  this  earthly  deal  unanimous.  He  stops 
every  bullet ;  eight  of  'em,  like  I  says. 


Crawfish  Jim*  335 

"  Thar  ain't  a  man  of  us  who  don't  feel  re- 
grets ;  but  what's  the  use?  Thar  we  be,  up 
ag'inst  the  deal,  with  Crawfish  clean  locoed.  It's 
the  only  wagon-track  out. 

" '  I  shore  hopes  he's  on  the  hot  trail  of  them 
bull-snakes  of  his'n, '  says  Dan  Boggs,  as  we  lays 
Crawfish  out  on  a  monte-table.  *  Seems  like  he 
thought  monstrous  well  of  'em,  an'  it  would 
mighty  likely  please  him  to  run  up  on  'em  where 
he's  gone.' 

"  Whatever  did  we  do  ?  Why,  we  digs  a  grave 
out  back  of  the  dance-hall  an'  plants  Crawfish  an' 
his  pets  tharin. 

"  *  I  reckons  we  better  bury  them  reptiles,  too,' 
says  Doc  Peets,  as  we  gets  Crawfish  stretched 
out  all  comfortable  in  the  bottom.  '  If  he's 
lookin'  down  on  these  yere  ceremonies  it'll  make 
him  feel  easier.' 

"  Doc  Peets  is  mighty  sentimental  an'  romantic 
that  a-way,  an'  allers  thinks  of  the  touchin' 
things  to  do,  which  I  more'n  once  notices  like- 
wise, that  a  gent  bein'  dead  that  a-way  allers 
brings  out  the  soft  side  of  Peets's  nacher.  You 
bet  !  he's  plumb  sympathetic. 

"  We  counts  in  the  snakes.  Thar's  'leven  of 
'em  besides  Julius  Caesar ;  which  we  lays  him 
on  Crawfish's  breast.  You  can  find  the  grave 
to-day. 

"  Shore !  we  sticks  up  a  headboard.  It  says 
on  it,  the  same  bein'  furnished  by  Doc  Peets — 


336  Wolfville* 

an'  I  wants  to  say  Doc  Peets  is  the  best  eddi- 
cated  gent  in  Arizona — as  follows : 


SACRED  To  the  MEMoRY  OF 
CRAWFiSh  JiM,  JuLiuS  CJEsAR 

AND 
ELEVEN  OTHER  BULL  SNAKES, 

THEY  MEANT  WELL, 
BuT  They  MISUNDERsToOD   EXIST- 
ENCE AND  DieD. 

THIS  BOARD  WAS  REARED  By  AN 

AnMiRiNG  ciRcLE  OF  FRieNDS 

WHO  WAs  wITH  DECEASED 

To  THE  LAST. 


"An'  don't  you-all  know,  son,  this  yere  onfor- 
tunate  weedin'  out  of  pore  Crawfish  that  a-way, 
sorter  settles  down  on  the  camp  an'  preys  on  us 
for  mighty  likely  it's  a  week.  It  shorely  is  a 
source  of  gloom.  Moreover,  it  done  gives  Dan 
Boggs  the  fan-tods.  As  I  relates  prior,  Boggs  is 
emotional  a  whole  lot,  an'  once  let  him  get  what 
you-all  calls  a  shock — same,  for  instance,  as  them 
bull-snakes — its  shore  due  to  set  Boggs's  intel- 
lects to  millin'.  An'  that's  what  happens  now. 
We-alls  don't  get  Boggs  bedded  down  none  for 
ten  days,  his  visions  is  that  acoote. 

"  *  Which  of  course,'  says  Boggs,  while  we-alls 


Crawfish  Jim*  337 

is  settin'  up  administerin'  things  to  him,  *  which 
of  course  I'm  plumb  aware  these  yere  is  mere 
illoosions  ;  but  all  the  same,  as  cl'ar  as  ever  I 
notes  an  ace,  no  matter  where  I  looks  at,  I  dis- 
cerns that  Julius  Caesar  serpent  a-regardin'  me  re- 
proachful outen  the  atmospher.  An'  gents,  sech 
spectacles  lets  me  out  a  heap  every  time.  You- 
alls  can  gamble,  I  ain't  slumberin'  none  with  no 
snake-spook  that  a-way  a-gyardin'  of  my  dreams.' 
"  That's  all  thar  is  to  the  death  of  Crawfish 
Jim.  Thar  ain't  no  harm  in  him,  nor  yet,  I 
reckons,  in  Julius  Caesar  an'  the  rest  of  Crawfish's 
fam'ly.  But  the  way  they  gets  tangled  up  with 
Wolfville,  an'  takes  to  runnin'  counter  to  public 
sentiment  an*  them  eight  six-shooters,  Crawfish 
an'  his  live-stock  has  to  go." 


!*«• 


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